Lucas

The scent to bonfire, dry hands, thick hair, pale skin, marked veins, always the same four shirts, two steps above when you are standing and you smile with a satisfying sound, your motivation is the alcohol in your stomach, and cars are car races, your friends are a wall between you and me, you say that romance is what you look for and still you don’t see it, music is your language and your eyes drown in letter of books by dead authors, your mind is twisted and you like talking about it, the life in you is squeezed out of you and you know it, you are counting the minutes, seconds, days that you have left until you burn, and you go fast and far, in a hurry and slow, asleep until two o’clock in the afternoon, anger in the eyebrows and abuse in the backpack.

And I don’t know enough about you that could help me tell what particular thing of your awful personality I like.

T.A.