The last time

It was summer, it was in a bar, it was your birthday so it was October. We were twenty and we were difficult to define, I had bought you something and my arms were burning. You were to the left of my right and we didn't speak (or I don't remember what we said).

I had a smile and this ba da bump to see you when I was going blind. You had black hair and green eyes, you were using the cell phone and you weren't smiling. I was nervous, I had the need to tell you about my day and tell you how I was feeling, I had a galaxy to talk to you about. I was anxious to break free before you.

You had this tic in your leg and you watched the people walk around us, I saw you move in the chair and look at me as we were accomplices and I thought: "This, I want this forever and ever"

I remember thinking that this was what my mother talk about when she explained love to me. And I was accepting that loving you was letting you be happy even though it hurt and I had my fingers bent because I was happy to have you even on my side. You had your old white shirt and you were eating, as always, and I had the cell phone turned off because I wanted to talk to you.

The sun was coming through the window on my back and I swear it was a second, a second to look back and see the clouds, a second to get mad about something you said and throw a tantrum like a child, a second to watch the burning of my eyes and eyelids, and I extend my gift but you weren't there.

You had gone with a friend, someone, something, you cared more than me and my desire for us to last.

TA.