Where are you? In my mind. I crave, I starve for that feeling I had back then, all you made me feel, so authentical, so fresh, pure, hurtful, tragic and then... Nothing.
And I keep feeling like there's something I haven't told you yet.
Did I tell you that I loved you? 'Cause I did, like I've never loved again. The passion... I can't help but feeling like there's something wrong with me, 'cause I can't feel it anymore. Even if I try to catch it, like your breath when you talk too close and I feel your warmth on my skin, it just flies away. I just fly away, like a paper plane. Like a duck migrating. Like a fly looking for shit to land on. Like now... Wait. I was talking about you.
I can't even write anymore, all that comes out is this graphic prose, as if every bone that holds my flesh was powder and I couldn't hold myself for long. I hate myself, I have to confess this before it becomes unreal. It's like I'm in a house and I've lived here for years. I'm tired. Let me out. Not even I think I'm right, so don't dare to tell me you did it because I told you to. Can't you see I am such a negative person? Why would you let yourself be influenced by me? Don't make a fool of yourself.
Sorry. Don't ask the ill to shut up when they hurt.
I wasn't ill when I talked to you, I was exploding, like thousands of volcanos of vodka, and you were an alcoholic crowd gathered around my crater, opening your mouth to receive the sacred blessing of my outrageous personality.
We were two holes on the earth. I passed by your house when I was in school, everyday for six years and we came to meet so far from where we had thousands of possibilities of coming across each other. And we weren't holes anymore, we turned into the highest mountains, and there was snow over our summits.
Tonight I'm wearing that old damn shirt you gave me when I was at your house. I remember like it was yesterday... You and I at truancy class, naked in the shower. I gave you a hat, one you wore for a couple picturesque scenes of you masterfully playing the guitar. We smoked pot in that broken glass bong you insisted on taping over and over, because we were so young and poor at that time.
I hate everything, I have to confess this before it becomes unreal. I am like a house a man built with his own hands one day of january. A house that was always in the same fucking street, in the suburbs of some forgotten city.
But you're still my finest muse.