She tells me our story and cries,
and dances through the mist
escaping the hold of my fist,
yet I don’t believe our goodbyes.
My smile ages as I wait
the next diagonal move of luck.
Denying words, unable to talk,
putting all my hopes on fate.
I’d tell her jokes so she forgets
the above advice that said: elope,
I gather memories tied with ropes
about that night, in which we met.
Now she sleeps or now she wakes,
I couldn’t tell, she is not near.
She told me she broke on tears
when the story began to flake.
The Sun will keep on shining, the Moon will move the tides.
The former lights the perception she’ll have about these lines.
The latter makes me send them. And is really all I have.