It's been a few days since you only tasted bitter. Prior to that, I couldn't even think about you. Because I had to stop giving you the benefit of the doubt, or the possibility of an eternal pause translated into the excuse I don't need.
And I value what I do, with my heart under construction and
seeing your name at the bottom of some well to which I will not return. From
zero to a hundred. From listening to the laughter in my bones to me not caring
how your heart keeps going.
As Natos and Waor say, things are clear (and the
ink of the pen is as hot as the blood that keeps flowing). Flowing. It doesn't stop.
It doesn't end. It does not dissolve. It only renews and dies. From zero to a
hundred. From sounding like a sonnet to dreaming that I let you go.
Fito plays again, and I think I insist on building
the house from the roof up. We'll have to stop shortcuts and take off
our wings to lay the foundations. Or I can put them on and fly to New York.
Forget the emptiness, the silence, and the nightmare of not having us.
I can't stress the words on this keyboard. A poetically absurd
analogy of when I was looking for reasons in others that don't let me be free.
Trying to put the focus on a past that makes no sense. Because "se"
can be a passive particle or the future of whoever wants to have it. The
difference between passing and leaving a mark.
When you get older, plainer,
saner
Will you remember all the
danger
We came from?
Burnin' like embers, falling
tender
Long before the days of no
surrender years ago
And well you know?
