I look back at the memories with regret,
With repulsion.
With a feeling I've never felt in my life,
The feeling of knowing that I was wrong all along,
That I lost the only friend able to ruin me,
Without it feeling bad.
He used to capture the moments spent with me.
Capture them in pictures, in snaps, in videos...
He used to take photographs of me,
Without me even asking for them,
Without me even noticing.
He used to be there for me without expecting anything in return.
And I used to feel happy and alive,
And joyful and free,
When I was with him.
And I used to cherish the friend he had given me.
But then, on that week,
Middle January,
I was lonely,
I was broken,
And I pushed everyone away,
And I mistook their kindness for foolishness,
And I mistook his worried messages for pride.
He could've been the one friend that was there till the end.
If the timing hadn't been so off.
YOU ARE READING
My loved ones; a journey.
Poesía“Perhaps one did not want to be loved, as much as to be understood” George Orwell.
