I am done writing love letters to myself. I am tired of communicating to something that often fails to listen. I can feel the end near, not the kind I’m used to see, I’m waiting but not so patiently. Love has been absent and I don’t know where’s it hiding. In despite of it’s sudden fade, fear stays, it’s always around.
Cold whispers on my ear, gently crashing words to me.
Going deep inside my mind, waiting for another try.
There’s a storm once again, one not even summer can repair.
I can’t take my dark sunglasses off, they have grown out from me.
—- Just a soft reminder of what I intend on accomplishing here, I don’t expect to make sense or try writing properly. All I want is to let go of things that sometimes travel into my head.