My life gets rid like a pile of leaves shaken by the wind of the whole world. Few know that to imagine is a rare verb conjugation of to hurt. Few ones. I realized it when you left, we didn’t have photographs, we just had visited other places but our ravines. Our cliffs overlooking the inside. Now  love has to me the taste of early mornings, of my hair tousled and of living without caring if I’m doing it wrong or not. I got used to you like you were my favorite song. And I always sang you, and then things stopped making sense, you ended up playing in the background. One day I woke up, it was spring already, I’ll tell you what: you were gone and I didn’t want to stay, but I did. You told me you’ll be back like it’s said to a child that magic exists, but I knew it was a lie. I stayed and didn’t mind doing it wrong . Now and again, I try to forget you, always keeping a piece of you as a toy to play in moments like this one, when time’s just been changed and it gets dark too early. And I don’t want to get out of here. I can’t get you out of me without feeling that I’m also getting empty of the most beautiful thing I’ve ever had in that vast desert of my heart. And you’re just as wonderful as cruel, as sad, like a thunder across my ribs. I’d never mind doing it wrong.

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