o9/12/2o16

I'll never confess,
even if my life depended on it,
that sometimes
when all goes dark
I still wear that t-shirt I stole from you.

Because,
even thou I know it is impossible,
it has your scent still
and it helps me
to feel less lonely.

I know, love.

It's hard not to know love
when I think of you and can't help a smile.
Then you come and say you can't be happy,
and that breaks my fucking heart.
I want to love you right and show you
I know love.
I know how to heal your scars
with kisses made of stitches.
I want to make love out of you.

But then your idea of love comes
and gets in between
and you say that you can't love
But you do! You just don't know love.
You think of love as something that hurts
that takes away everything one is,
but that is not love, my love

But again you say that you don't love me,
then pride comes and takes control
and there is no pride in love
There is no me.
And that makes me think,
am I loving you right?
Is it my fault that you can't love?
I want you to grow wings
so we both can fly
cause it's not you or I, it's us.

But then your idea of love takes over
and your self hate and doubt make me cry again.
Because it hurts to see your doubts
because I want you to love yourself
as I love you
because I know love
I know love

I know, love.

And then one Monday (of course), when you think you are all over it, that you have healed and even forgotten that he's not here, you'll see a picture of him on the newspaper, while riding the bus back home...

And you will cry your eyes out.

We miss you, Mr. Stardust.

11|11|11

It's not like I care, really.

I don't think of you every day. Not at all. It's not like I'd love to share every little thing with you either.

I don't think of you riding the tube with me, talking about everything and nothing. I don't get all nostalgic about holding hands on the street. Or laughing together walking on the shore. 

I don't get all excited about reading my favourite book to you, or listen to music while we lay down in bed.

And I absolutely don't miss you every day. I don't crave your lips every hour. Your eyes every minute. I don't desire you every single second.

I really don't.

Gotas de serenidad.

Bajo del autobús y una ráfaga de viento me hace coger con fuerza el bolso y el paraguas, el cual permanece cerrado.

La lluvia cae sobre mí empapando mi pelo y mi ropa. La falda se me pega a las piernas, y al quitarme la capucha puedo sentir una gota de agua empezar a recorrer mi nuca, camino a mi espalda. Las manos se me mojan, y siento cuchillos de frío atravesarme la piel. Comienzo a andar mientras la lluvia aumenta su intensidad.

La gente corre con sus paraguas o pasa debajo de las cornisas de los balcones, en un vano intento de no mojarse. Me observan como si no estuviera bien de la cabeza. Mientras tanto, sigo paseando. La lluvia sigue cayendo y sólo se escuchan las gotas sobre el asfalto, sobre la acera, sobre las hojas de los árboles. Los pitidos de los coches, los pasos apresurados de la gente.

De un salto me meto en un charco, más profundo de lo esperado. Sorprendida ante el frío del agua, suelto una carcajada, intensificada ante la mirada atónita de una señora mayor con una bolsa en la cabeza.

Al pasar por las vías de tren, me pongo a hacer equilibrios sobre ellas, sin importarme el caer, el mojarme, o que el tranvía pase.

Soy feliz.

Mojada, con la ropa pegada al cuerpo, con la lluvia sucia de una ciudad contaminada cayendo sobre mi...

Soy feliz.

Sí, creo que estoy loca.