I try to act childishly and so it is easy for me to ignore the asphygia that begins to rise up my neck, like two invisible hands that hang me alive from the center. And I try to believe all this, so I can look for winged with mon hypofreinérie et la dépression légère croissante.
Walking, the frost of the night doesn't hurt me more than your distance, but I still try to smile really.
« Mon douce amie, tu sais tout » ;
" I miss you "
"¿Cuántos días tendré que esperar para poder verte? "
Maybe it hurts less if I pretend it doesn't exist, even if it's pure denial. I have no other way out than this. Here it is, like a pathetic misfortune; even when I feel the sun's rays on my skin and the feeling of breathing more soothed, that only makes me miss you from the hollow bottom of my wretched heart; I can only wish to see you with my soul and living organ, in my dreams and the moments behind the pillow. Maybe, just maybe... I don't miss you as much as yesterday, and only maybe, one day I can be fine with it. Oh, my hope! I would like to let you go so that you have your own life, but every day that the blood flows through my body I only miss you more and the desire becomes bigger and bigger.
