No Longer Cries

That restless poet, who engraved between his lips the most mischievous and most eloquent words, bordering on madness only to savor it and spread it everywhere.

That poet who wove herself through the trees of the lost forests of her mind, letting herself go free. So free.

That poet who denied love and was so in love.

That which was was no longer.

Now, now that you dare to love without stripping, now that you understand that love is the most important thing. Now.

Now she no longer wants, she no longer loves and she does not understand how it is possible to feel something so bland for the one who ran out of breath.

Who was set on fire and was burning fire in his arms?

Now at night, however, she no longer cries. The cold of solitude shelters him more than a thousand beds waiting for the company.

The night is no longer boredom is welcome. 

Gradually disappear. Rather, fading.

To cling to everyday life again, to the sunlight without seeing through the screen.

Maybe she misses feeling differently. Feeling the way she felt every time, she eft class in the morning.

Feel the hope hovering in the air. See the same transient but frequent smiles around the corner from the block where she lives.

Maybe she doesn't just miss the days; also nights. The strange peculiarities that could happen. Characters and people. And people being and becoming funny characters.

Maybe it's a little bit of everything wrapped in melancholy paper. What was and is gone, and what will come will not be the same.

Little by little, we will be others, we already are and we will be more. The afternoons will last less and the nights only sleepless.