Promisses and best intentions. Words left unsaid: it is useless. We look at each other. We know what we meant, but our language is just not the same anymore. Just not enough. Passion is never satisfied, and we will never be. We made so much harm and brought so much joy to our lives, love and hate, constantly struggling to stay on top. We been spiraling among each other for what it seems to be an eternity. We been the mixture of dreams, of possibility, and want. Never, never consuming, never enough, as passion itself is.

We dream of each other while having our peaceful lifes. We crave for that rush of LIFE while peacefully building our future. There is an agonising, beautiful rage between us that never fades because it is made with the fabric of desire, that burns forever. We have a great wisdom on our hands: this desire is nessesary, but it never works as the founding for nothing that is meant to last. In possibilty is rich and beautiful, nourishing for the soul. When conjured into reality, it explodes, destroys, its flame hurts and consumes the air for everything else in life to thrive. It´s impossible to sail through it. Just a beautiful dead end, a perfect scenery of death. Ofelia in a flowerbed. Our virtue was to know the difference, to embrace the beauty of our passion from far away. We know it will never work. We know it triuphs at the same time. Because our relationship prevails in a different plane, and can be as real as anything else. Far, far away, the beautiful pain, the deliciuous thirst, the tendrils of desire caress our souls and its flame is tender.