It will soon be two years.
Two years of dreaming and ulterior motives. Two years of laughs, tears and chills. Two years of everything from disillusionment, hope, life and death wishes.
Two years of hidden love in the eyes of all scoffers. But still two years of confidences for the most sensitive and most relatives.
But the crux cracks, tears flowing and any cracks. The mask of happiness clouded because I'm tired. Tired of dreams about you, sick of drawings and writings that speak to you in secret. Tired of lies and uncertainties.
I want to read in you like an open book I read a chapter on simple yet beautiful. I want to know and see and even touch the myth that you have become progressively under my very eyes and naive.
If only I knew what could happen. You you climb to the summit, and I stay the apprentice-writer, with her little anonymous texts. The writer who is crying in his corner and waits. I thought You Expect. But I can not for now. Enough. You are the blood drains from my body limp, you're the oil that flows into the depths of the Earth.
But enough is enough.
Maybe we will meet us one day. And maybe then I'd be for you, the cup or even Muse. But there's enough. The crowd wait for you and me the future and life to me with open arms.
Thanks to you I relapsed and I rush back into the abyss which had escaped with great enthusiasm. Maybe if I vomit spewing all this love I have for you and who does not want to leave. Love that eats me and sucking me like the worst pests.
I already regret anything I just wrote.
I love you (anyway).
