At this stage in my life I don’t think I'm going to write anything worthwhile.

jueves, 4 de abril de 2013

You know I'm not going to stay here. 
I'm not going to be your present, or your past, either your future.
I want you to know that.
 I'm not like the wind that gently caresses your hair.
 I'm like that cloud you awkwardly see once in your life.
That's me. A touch of life. But ephemeral and painful.
Your bones will broke, and your knees are going to tremble.
Because you're going to miss me.
 Everyday. Every month.
I will be partly in your memory.
 In a reflection of the city when you walk by it.
Maybe in your eyes when you search for your glance.
But I will be gone. Not in your skin. But yes in your life.

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