Remember the letters,
that I used to write?
They weren't written,
because the idea seemed romantic.
Nor because they made me happy.
Maybe, they were a little,
for both of these reasons.
But I mainly wrote,
to keep us close.
Seven years have brought us closer,
than we could ever dreamed to be.
I treasured each second,
each memory.
I can't express how much you mean to me.
That's why,
I try so hard,
to make you see.
I live my life everyday.
It is as beautiful as ever,
but with many changes.
The pain comes and leaves,
every time,
I make a mistake,
But hope comes and stays with me,
while I try to correct it.
Dearest,
Why do you feel so far away?
When your house is just below some stairs?
Why aren't you in my life anymore?
Why am I getting more closer to my other friends,
and more distant to you?
I miss those silly secrets of ours.
I miss those long evenings,
when we would, sometimes, just sit,
and watch T.V.
I miss those talks,
I miss those walks.
I miss the girl whom I called my best friend.
Now she is far away,
than she has ever been.
She doesn't visit me,
nor asks me how I am.
I go through shit,
and she doesn't gets the wind of it.
Everyday, I breathe more.
I smile and cry,
a million times.
But she isn't here,
to crack a joke,
or with me, sigh.
I miss my bestie,
whom I talked for ages,
never getting bored.
I miss those times,
when we would sit together,
silent, because we wouldn't have anything left to talk about.
I miss her smile,
I miss her laugh.
I miss the warmth that she carried.
I miss her.
But she doesn't even try,
To make time for me,
As I, in the past,
have so faithfully had.
I feel tired,
trying to keep us together,
but we're being pulled apart.
Do you know Hania?
That the next few months are going to be tougher for me?
That I can't reach out for you in that time?
And how will you later?,
When right now,
You're not holding onto me?
We'll be those distant friends,
who have too much to talk about,
but never the time.
Tell me please,
what do you want me to do?
How much more can I do for you?
Be honest with me,
If you were me,
would you too?
I'm not letting go.
It's not like I can anyway.
But I want you to know something.
When I won't be able to reach out for you anymore,
we'll be drawn apart even further,
and maybe then, I'll have to let go.
Or you'll have to.
YOU ARE READING
The Ink Spilling From My Pen ✔
Poesía* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * The ink that spilled out of my pen formed these poetry. * ** * * * * * * * * * * ** ** * * ** * * ** * ** ** *** ** * * ** * * ** A random poetry collection that spill...
