Wear esquivandote days, not because they want to talk to you, but because for my talk is synonymous with suffering. I'll never understand what happened after that magical weekend in which the passion is overwhelming, in the two days that it was impossible to rescue us from between the sheets. Prisoners between those four walls where happiness slid down the balconies.
And now you're with another, your words pierce like daggers and happiness causes me so much joy and pain simultaneously. Contradictory feelings that confuse my senses: I am happy if you're happy with who you want, but I am also unhappy if you share this happiness with me.
I still love you as the first day.
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