She says she misses me in a casual way. It's hard to believe her, but I don't really care.
Sometimes I want to feel that she never changed, that she kept that summer warm look even in the coldest nights in November, but it's different, something went different, and I lost my chance to know.
She grabs a book, take a look and move on fast, afraid I'll ask her a question she can't answer. I feel that somehow I've changed her, that I taught her heart hour by hour how to give, how to trust, how to love. That the stories of love she sleeps on every night are mine, stolen from my words, hidden beneath her.
She grabs a book and hit me in my bare back, hunting me, talking about me, using my name over and over, taking away food and shelter.
She also learned how to never look back. She burns in guilt and desire.
She sit silent sometimes, she makes me wonder what goes through her head, and I wait for a signal, for a smile, just to make sure she's ok. She has to be ok, She has to be always ok , She doesn't know how much she makes me feel safe, She has to be ok.
She reads my words, tries to wonder what go through my mind and how much paranoia has taken from me, She fails to see that I don't always talk about her, like I don't want to write about her, I'd like to say them by many other creative ways than words.
She sits there, calm, hiding inside the streets my old memories, my childhood, smiles, and scattered dreams. She looks wise, accepting rain as she accepts a true feeling: the sky loves her, tells her to stay silent and peaceful.
But I know, I know every single dilemma she goes through, every single thought she has. I know every single evil she commit, But I still don't know how she keeps me coming back every Sunday night to collect pieces of dreams, shatters of time and try to create a life around me.