It was the fifth or sixth time that he jumped out of the bed, walked to the living room and take a look at the casted hour in the clock: barely one a.m. At least 3 hours left before starting ‘a new day’. But, how, when it felt so attached to the day before, and the events close to that date, when she turned against him without a warning?
Last Friday, before the show, he noticed her acting differently by the phone. She wasn’t picking it and soon he realized something went wrong… again. Of course his first response was to get mad, it was so little love left, just crumbs, and he felt into despair and his heart was doomed on the sea storms of untold love, unfolded love, aimless love…
‘I can’t sleep since you keep moving’ she pointed out. May senseless, but his heart regretted and suffered with her jingle voice, clueless, more than ever, lost. A rip tore his heart and she was the author, and rather to clear the mist, dug into it more and yell at him ever since that he’s still guilty –in the present.
And his heart drawn in despair, because he loved her. The nightmare never disappeared, ratter than that, it got bigger with the new day. He was waiting for her all day, taking an eye on her, admiring her, loving her and suffering because of her.
He wanted her, he needed her, and he hardly held the impulse to turn on her on the bed and hold her, right there, to his left. Like always. Like before. Now, as strangers, they ‘share’ the space, the air, the fruit he chops every morning for her. But nothing more. Their ‘agendas’ split a long time ago and both though it ‘was o.k.’
Because she did not understand, and he did not either. The harmony were lost, and the flowers dried out, the birds stopped whistling their song and somewhere, in the infinite sky, another star died leaving the cold dark reign in it’s place instead…
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