Well I could tell you I love you, that you past and present are blurred and I miss you as long ago did not miss anyone. It could, but I will not because they feel it, but because it has no case.
In my mind everything is mixed: your friendly smile and your eyes clear over nine years I was confused with the image of your naked body and the sounds of your heated sighs of less than fourteen days. So that unexpected night. You had a revelation, I got disillusioned. One speaks, he says things, listen I do not want, the head is flooded with memories and eventually writes a story, yes, a fucking story. Because that's life: so fucking love, tears and betrayal are reduced to a few disconnected words that do not shed light on what really happened between us. They do not explain the tenderness of the first hugs. The furtive glances. The poems written. Kissing always prohibited. Our eternal condition of lovers. Because despite the intermittent silences between us, that's what we had: a "love" that could only exist in the understanding that none of them belonged to the other, with freedom as the highest and where there was no jealousy or claims of any nature. No questions asked and only the necessary answers.
Well I could tell you I love you but I will not. The phrase causes me conflict. Is the same as said hundreds of times to people who betray, they, them, we also huddled with those words at nightfall. Today, we promised not to us, not tell you what I never had much to say. And basically, you know, I prefer it stays that way, the myth, the legend about that indefinable and therefore unlimited lived with you. Because of all the fictions, yours was the most real and prolonged. The only worthwhile.
