She just wants me to feel , to think, to breathe, that I dial those numbers once more, again, again...
The strangest of the strange is this true happiness I am living. This state of grace. The strange filled my stomach with colorful butterflies. Filled with sighs my soul. Filled me with surrender...
It's one of those joys of giving little hops and muttering joy in the most serious countenance...
It's one of those joys so blessed by God that He is almost an accomplice of sporadic nonsense and lies...
It's one of those uncomfortable joys but that has the same face of hot bed and fluffy pillow...
She does not give a shit to me, and goes on her beautiful red dancing on my chest. I miss the air, get my eyes wide open...
She does not give a shit to me, tingling every part of my body, turning my drawing in dotted...
Later she urges me to call him to form my image, to make me exist...
She just smiles at me ironically and for mercy stays quiet for a few seconds...
Then I can not stand myself and look for her... Strange for strange, denying a passion is much crazier than accept her within us...
