Inner sensations want to be castrated by the illusion of the tidy love. What tears can not wash, the words will not either. The zigzag of hopes twists itself even more abruptly, more ambiguous, while facing the actions of people that already had gills inside your body.
I blew the colour from my wings. I did it to myself. The limited immortality seemed like a valid purpose. I contoured myself trails from my soul and mind, determining my body to jump inside ruthless chasms.
I wished I could have been absorbed by thoughts or the thoughts to be able to unveil at the surface and I to be forgotten inside a pocket. Or maybe I wished I could have become the solitary steam of “what if”.
I started to envy the water that evaporates under the power of the sun. Under the pressure of a light that it can not face. Such a blessing to be able to escape from this world without being judged.
Would it ever be possible to be surprised by the regenerated green if your hope is made just by black and salty sand? In that state, the rain of tears does not wash, it just makes things stuffy.