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.