I deleted all your pictures from my phone. Trust me, after seven months, I’m finally moving on.
I’ve never felt ugliest ‘till tonight. All men were dancing around me but never took me to dance. They just walked away to dance with girls prettier than me. I feel sooooo ugly :’( i feel like i’m shit.
Every time we talk, via text messages or chat (because we’re not even in the same country), I’m always willing to ask you something. I write it, but i’m not brave enough to send it.
"Do you miss me?" that’s what I write. That’s the question which answer keeps me up at night. Six weeks without you. I can’t sleep, i can’t eat, i can’t read, i hate breathing and getting the salty smell of the sea, ‘cause i remember those days sitting by the beach talking, kissing, laughing, knowing at each other.
I shouldn’t have shown you the streets I walk everyday, because now i have to walk alone, trying not to think about you, but as you can figure, I can’t help it.
I do miss you. I miss you everyday. I miss you when I sing, when I laugh… I miss you when I dance, I miss you when I look at the beautiful sea and the blue sky, it’s the same blue as your eyes.
I’m trying to be ok when we don’t talk, but I have to make a double effort when we do. I get mad, i scream my lungs out because I’m trying to forget but you don’t let me.
I guess I can’t ask you if you miss me, I wouldn’t handle the answer. If you don’t miss me, I’ll do my best to forget you, of course I’ll be sad, of course I’ll cry, but at least I’ll know.
If you miss me, I’ll die, because I’m sure we’ll never meet again, because I’m sure I’ll never kiss those lips nor feel safe next to you, nor being honest about my dreams in life. All these thoughts kill me slowly.
There are two seas between us, distance and time are not our allies. But I can’t be selfish to make you quit your life for making me happy.
Tell me a lie, or don’t. Don’t tell me anything at all, let me forget you. Let me die trying to forget you.
Most of us have, at one point, uttered this word.
Perhaps under our breath, as a whisper, fading into the nitrogen of the air. Or written down on a piece of paper, ink bleeding into the organic fibers of the parchment.
Some of us have even screamed this word, a desperate plea, an extended promise, one hand outreached, impatient for another. Some of us have weaved this word into lullabies; some have murmured it between tears and midnight kisses.
He should have said that, but he didn’t.