Sometimes life drifts you away from some people, no matter how hard you try to hold on to them. Life has its reasons. But sometimes you can beat them...

I'm writing in English. Again. You bumped into my head. Once more. It was weird. It still is. We both are. We. What were we? I don't know. No name, no definition under it, lots of things in it. Lots of silent feelings in my noisy world.

There's no way to make this work. Its okay. I know. We both understand. Letting go is the best thing to do. The good has already been done. Memories will stay. No pain in them. Better this way. 

Remember our goodbye? So silent. We couldn't speak. What now? What then... we never were able to say that word, that goodbye.

You fixed me. Well, no. You made me feel like I was fixed. Long walks by the Seine. Fresh air, you know. As soon as you dissappeared I knew I was still broken. All of my demons, each of one you had carefully hidden, came out, all at once.

There's no one in between us. There is just the world. World hits you hard sometimes. And the worst thing is you can never punch or fight it back.

I still think of him, though. Maybe 'cause we didn't have time to fall in love. Maybe I could be crying over you instead of him.

We did the right thing. The right choices, every time. We tried until it became too dangerous.

Fear tore us apart. Rational fear. I know how it feels to get your heart broken. It's an unbearable pain. Theres no way to understand it until you live it. Not even through reading, music, films... not even through writing. I'm afraid of love too. And at the same time, it's the only way to save me.

I believe something led us together. I was down. Deep down. You taught me to breathe. I sometimes wonder if you really realized how all of that happened. How my smile became true.

I don't know how to finish. Maybe cause  lots of things havent ended up yet. Maybe cause theres still some hope. Some hope for me to be saved. To be saved by you.

Dicen que las apariencias engañan;
no se dan cuenta de que lo que
engaña de verdad son las palabras.
Érase una amiga de mentira,
érase una careta de cartulina.
Y decorando su frente,
con letras grandes, "ESCRITORA".
A todos nos gustaría ser algo diferente,
a ti tanto que te haces la impostora.
(Se engaña hasta con la autoría de las palabras)
Los que sabemos escribir, escribimos;
los que no, agradecen lo exhibido.
Copia y pega,
nueva autora,
adiós muy buenas.
No sabía que teníamos un Bécquer entre nosotros;
¡aplaudámoslo, cara bonita para palabras mejores!
Nunca escribiré desde la sombra;
y así, frente a tus mentiras,
reclamo con mucha honra
mi humilde autoría.

Estoy tan sola que tengo eco.
Todas las noches me entran náuseas;
No sé si soy yo intentando vomitarte,
O vomitarme.
Tengo una parte tan oscura que hasta la luz la esquiva.
Es todo líquido, ceniza, antiguo.
A veces golpea las paredes tan fuerte que me duele cada puñetazo.
Intenta escapar pero solo existe dentro de mi...
Lo de fuera no lo va a cambiar.
Los surcos de las lágrimas escuecen,
Son como cortes silenciosos
Limpios.
Es irónico que sean tan limpias cuando solo sacan tus demonios.
Siempre estamos tristes.
Aunque nos engañemos
Y nos coloquemos cada mañana una sonrisa
Para el público
Y la ponemos tanto que a veces casi, casi llegamos a creérnosla
Pero pobre de ella
Cuando ve cada noche cómo las estrellas
Sacan cada puñalada,
Cada herida de bala.
Todo en silencio, nunca se oye nada.
Existen cosas tan horribles de contar
Que prefieres escribirlas
Porque así al menos las puedes disfrazar
Y así se queda el silencio
Cada uno con su historia que contar.