Not that I think of you as consistently as I used to do yesterday.
It's none of that.
I think it is only the ghost of my nostalgia, the one who opened the door of the Anden, to see how the sun fired at dusk without knowing that it would be me instantly that the moon began to sigh.
Not that I refuse to recognize that I lost you, but if I admit that maybe if.
If autumn came forward to see you leave, maybe it should have been since I met you, but do not accept the echo that in the future would not know what to do without you.
But I risk even knowing the consequences of going wrong again, because by your side I wanted to smile again.
But from the dream of new account I had to inevitably and consciously re-awaken.
Like a prophecy that had to be done.
I have No one to blame, because the only culprit within me is, that heart that is usually wrong.