I took a second to admire our photography. That began to bombard the memories because of nostalgia. I wanted to be with you! Without the sour in the chest and vinegar in the eyes. Attempt to recreate the portrait and its stage. A few minutes ago I come from and develop bubbles, deep breathing.
I take a second look at the wall because I'm looking at my picture and usurp yours myself because I can not get anything. Realities of small bubbles come out of water closet memories and thoughts. Streams of memories in the gray area I get to watch what I saw, hear what I heard, smelled and figure out what everything beautiful recreate I felt ... All the senses melted in the heart endure the pressure and rain all details, as is the architect of a work, give me a hand to make the experience almost sublime imagination.
My memory is going at the speed of light, recreating yours and nothing is real. But nothing is one hundred percent sure, maybe my story is real and the other a nightmare.
In my story you become my face and my cross, white rice and salty sea in heavy rock ... in the love of God. Because there is no poet, or sculptor, or painter or musician capable of emulating the beauty of a flower. Viva. Although art is the closest thing there is to own creation. But anyway, there's nothing better than you.
Your memory comforts me but I burn. Morse code of my heart thunders that hates your game and the infinite distance that seems to attack me as chisels in the head that lead me to the line of extreme helplessness. It is somewhat inconsistent to say that I see in your absence. A lifeless body still.
Your image fills my space. Into the void I see your face and look away, deep in the soul, behind the sun. Nothing's any consolation. No one surpasses it. Only I have to get used to living with your sail off and hope in the soul of eternal life to exist.
Leo
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