Él fue escrito por alguien que pensaba, que el amor era como un cuento, su escritor, describió detalladamente a un joven que se sumergía en su mundo mágico de emociones diversas como un carrusel, desde la más profunda relajación, hasta la suave felicidad que podía recorrer por su sangre cada vez que tenía un instrumento frente a él, sus teclas blancas, llamativas que contrastaban con sus dedos, y las negras haciendo juego, pareciendo que, la habilidad de sus manos hacían conjunto con los cálidos suspiros que soltaba, realizando notas, acordes y escalas, sus falanges corriendo por el extenso piano, con aquellos ojos admirando el arte en su máximo esplendor, siendo capaces de proyectar, de proyectar el amor con solo una mirada... amando su pasión, amando lo que representaban esas melodías creadas por sí mismo.

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Y su escritor, amando escucharlas en su mente, enamorado de cada nota que presionaba, y como parecía crear arte con solo un movimiento.

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Él fue escrito por un joven condenado amarle hasta el fin de sus días, su escritor lo pudo describir como un ángel, o representando a este como un príncipe, uno que pareció escaparse de la misma luna por la palidez de su piel, que brillaba en las noches cuando esta se proyectaba. O tal vez, por él amor que tenía por la madre nocturna, mirándola por horas sentado frente a la ventana, sonriendo cuando ella se iluminaba, el brillo de su sonrisa opacando cada fulgor a su alrededor, siendo el más intenso, y el más hermoso.

Lo detallaron como una pintura, o una poesía extensa, con cada palabra y sinónimo describiendo su perfección, desde las características físicas hasta lo dulce que se escuchaba su voz al reír, desearle los buenos días a los mayores, e incluso cuando cantaba aquellas bandas bajo el cielo azul de la noche, robándose las estrellas de ahí... para incrustrarlas en su piel, pequeñas pecas que, el escritor de este joven parecía besar entre cada párrafo. Robándose las miles de galaxias infinitas, puestas solamente en esos ojitos mágicos, que lo veían con tanto amor, haciéndole saber al mundo, que fue escrito para ser perfecto, para que todos se enamorarán de aquel dulce ángel que su mente ideó, que fue escrito como un sueño hecho realidad, un príncipe de cuentos de hadas capaz de robarte el corazón, los suspiros e incluso tu alma, con solo mirarte a los ojos.

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Él fue escrito, deseado, y amado bajo las estrellas, por un escritor esclavo de la depresión que deseaba amar a alguien que jamás olvidaría, que podría leer hasta cansarse, e imaginarlo a su lado, compartiendo dulces momentos momentos, con su precioso príncipe de la luna. Fue escrito por un joven que cada vez se encerraba más en su miseria, y deseaba tener aquel motivo para renacer, y escribió a un chico, que jamás existirá, que jamás podrá amarlo, como él lo deseaba.

Él fue escrito por mi... Y yo, me enamoré perdidamente del protagonista de mi propia historia.

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He was written by someone who thought, that love was like a story, its writer, described in detail a young man who immersed himself in his magical world of diverse emotions like a carousel, from the deepest relaxation, to the soft happiness that could run through his blood every time he had an instrument in front of him, his white keys, striking keys that contrasted with his fingers, and the black ones matching, it seemed that, his hands skill matched with the warm sighs that he let out, making notes, chords and scales, his scales, striking keys that contrasted with his fingers, and the black ones matching, it seemed that the skill of his hands matched the warm sighs he released, making notes, chords and scales, his phalanges running through the extensive piano, with those eyes admiring the art in its maximum splendor, being able to project, to project love with just a glance. ... loving his passion, loving what those self-created melodies represented.

And his writer, loving to hear them in his mind, in love with every note he pressed, and how he seemed to create art with just a movement.

He was written by a young man condemned to love him until the end of his days, his writer could describe him as an angel, or depict him as a prince, one who seemed to escape from the moon itself by the pallor of his skin, which glowed in the nights when it was projected. Or perhaps, because of the love he had for the nocturnal mother, watching her for hours sitting in front of the window, smiling when she lit up, the brightness of her smile overshadowing every glow around him, being the most intense, and the most beautiful.

They detailed him like a painting, or an extended poem, with every word and synonym describing his perfection, from the physical features to how sweet his voice sounded when he laughed, wished the elders good morning, and even when he sang those bands under the blue night sky, stealing the stars from there...to embed them in his skin, little freckles that, this young man's writer seemed to kiss between each paragraph. Stealing the thousands of infinite galaxies, placed only in those little magic eyes, that saw him with so much love, letting the world know, that he was written to be perfect, so that everyone would fall in love with that sweet angel that his mind devised, that he was written as a dream come true, a prince of fairy tales capable of stealing your heart, your sighs and even your soul, just by looking into your eyes.

He was written, desired, and loved under the stars, by a writer enslaved by depression who wished to love someone he would never forget, that he could read until he got tired, and imagine him by his side, sharing sweet moments, with his precious prince of the moon. It was written by a young man who was becoming more and more enclosed in his misery, and wished to have that reason to be reborn, and wrote to a boy, who will never exist, who will never be able to love him, as he wished.

He was written by me... And I fell madly in love with the protagonist of my own story.