Because I can not accept that I do not know how to hide, defend me that I am very sincere. Of course I have not died yet, in the midst of unhappiness, my despair stretches out in my unconscious eyes.
I thought I'd admit it once. I can not confess you to myself anymore. I was so wrong; I did not even digest your senses, even though I do not know what it means to be with you. That may be my only confession: I can not even accept that I love you more, from strangers. Be a nice woman. This is the way it is. Somehow the day is read, emotions from the eyes of everyone, sorrows from their hands, sorrows from their foreheads, happiness from their dimples; with who you are and what you have to do after you are not with ...
It was all that. I collected the papers scattered in the room like emotion that I found in the wreckage and threw it back, first my cigarette then burned them. Now I think about which one is more effective and kills me. Feelings are outweighing.
