I don't know if it was real, but it still hurts somehow,
somewhere between my lungs and chest.
If I still write for you:
Come here and take a sit by my side.
Come here and take a pice of mine.
Let me stare at your face while you're sleeping,
kiss your nose, see your eyes open and close my arms.
Because sleep by your side means more than my health,
means more than anything I have,
means more than anything I am.
Today I want to destroy the world,
undo all I did but you,
stay together stoned, watching an old street
pass us by like it is all brand new.
Forgive me by the way.
Forget my stupidity; it was my fault.
Now I will change myself, burning my failures down.
Say you still love me.
Say you will come back.
But today is not the day,
and like you and me,
I let this poem not finished.
Not finished yet.
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