The two chairs are empty. One, because he has not arrived. Another
because she was gone. Then the gray afternoon
more gray, because he did not, never comes, because it brings its load of hugs sweet, the aroma of toast, your eyes of stars sunset.
And because she does not return times into opportunities to return to burst with joy, because it is not repeated in others, because she has become a hoodoo that breeds resentment and fogs up rancid past happiness. On the double pain
is woven with needles of letters, a thin thread of understanding.
are souls who talk and dream, and compare injuries, and the parallel sigh alone. His empty symmetrical and opposed long sit in the chairs frost, and breakfast is a dangerous punishment simulation routine.
She says hope you do not, but lie and wait, biting his lip to prevent spillage of toxic love.
He is mortified because love comes out and joining forces to follow suit. No lies, no need: a sharp thorn stuck to the skin purple is the reminder.
Among the blanks, prancing around, it goes a dirty wind and warm. Brings more nostalgia, more cravings. There seems no comfort here.
It suffers for love too, suffers by not making love ... The empty chairs are impeccable, an eternal day in greyscale descends upon the soul.
Near-so close, the dew is kissing a lover's delight young leaves.
be enough to get out of chair and stretching your fingers, just that, that brief gesture, and the spring would start.
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