It is more difficult for you to pretend having feelings when you don’t,than it is to me to pretend I don’t have any when I do.That is why I’d rather sleep.Not having to think.Just to feel.In the sea of illusions,every touch of yoursbelongs to me.

Nowhere to be touchedor explored,not here and not in distance.It’s just a tingle that overflows my brightest dreams.Am I wise or simple-minded to believethat non–existent evidenceis not an evidence of non–existence?

Is it possible to silencethe mind of a loverwithout losing it?Getting desires fulfilledmight satisfy it,taking away its peace.

What is love but a word?A feeling roughly concordant to fear?A fantasy that breaks throughthe heartbreakand endows the defeated with bravery?

Our love is like the moon,changeable through all the phasesof complete disappearance to full existence.It raises the sea up to the skyand makes the cool wind ripple its surface.Blindly sparkling it doesn’t let us see.I know I’m not the only one to love you,but your heart inquired only of me.

The two of us,two lost keys of the different doors,once strangers and now a souvenir of pain.