And maybe the sky isn't the place where angels live. Maybe it's an unknown place where all the balloons, we used to hold as kids and left by accident, are heading to. Somewhere between the clouds or lost to the blue of the sky. A place full of colourful, oval-shaped and forgotten dreams. In that exact moment, when a sad expression outlined on our face because we were so silly and carefree goofing around, that we never thought this innocent comportment of ours would have this unexpected result. But it happened and we also couldn't do anything to prevent the waft. We jumped and jumped and jumped. The balloon was flying away so gently and slowly but also so frantically and fast as we were trying to reach for it. And then, when we couldn't do anything anymore, a suspiration was our last reaction and final surrender to hope. We were watching it as it was leaving, getting higher and higher. But we are the ones who left it escape from our hands at first place.
So how am I supposed to reach for something that I am unsure it still exists? I am old enough to realise that resting my faith in 'maybes' won't grant my salvation and the biggest mistake I would do, is to believe it.
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My Secret Phone Notes
PoetryWords, sayings, thoughts of mine and maybe somehow poetry which are written in my phone's notes and nobody sees and knows about them but they keep deep secrets of mine that I'll never have the strength to say. Writing is my escape because there are...
