And when we kissed it felt weird, it felt familiar, like I had kissed him a million times before, like I had known his lips, needed them, my whole life, like I had known HIM my whole life. Maybe from another life, maybe from all the lives that I have lived.
I felt it coming, and so I did my best to disguise it and told her a joke. Because I needed her smile to be the last thing I saw.
Ella siempre ponía en papel las historias que se inventaba en la cabeza, historias de terror, de amor, de suspenso y de todos los géneros que puedas imaginar. Las guardaba en una carpetica y siempre que viajaba a Londres – que era mucho, siempre amó la ciudad pero nunca se planteó vivir allí – los dejaba en su café favorito, en la misma mesa, en una esquina al final del café.
Él todos los días pasaba por el café, compraba un frappe latte con oreo y chequeaba la mesa a ver si encontraba alguna historia nueva.
Él nunca supo quién era la autora de esas maravillosas historias, y ella nunca supo que sus historias las recogía y leía siempre la misma persona, su fan número uno, su único fan.
I know you’re not near me,
you’re miles away.
I know I haven’t met you yet,
I’ve been delayed.
But I know that,
when I do meet you,
I’ll know right away,
And I will love you
from the moment
our eyes connect.
At some point in our relationship, I noticed she had developed a new smile, my smile. I used to see it in her face every time she looked at me, when I made her laugh, when she woke up and saw me watching her, after every single kiss. That smile was reserved especially for me.
After we broke up I realized I missed her when I stopped seeing that smile, my smile. Even when we coincidentally ran into each other on the street, the market, etc. She never smiled at me like that again.
After we broke up I realized I had fucked up badly when I saw her once, with a guy, at the park, giving him my smile.
Je ne peux plus respirer,
Je me sens enfermé,
Je sais que j’ai la clé
Je seulment doir de chercher-là,
Mais, je ne se pas comme de chercher.
Je se comme de chercher-là,
Mais je n’ai pas l’inspiration pour chercher,
J’ai besoin cette inspiration,
Je rêve pour l’inspiration,
Je peux vue l’inspiration,
Mais je ne peux pas toucher-là.
Mais, mais, mais,
Les “mais” m’asphyxie,
Je me sens enfermé,
Je ne peux plus respirer.
What was it that she needed to do with her life? She did not know, despite the fact that she thought about it and wonder every day. She just couldn’t figure it out.
Was it something she was good at? She was good at many things. Was it something she loved doing? She loved doing many more. She just couldn’t make up her mind.
“Simple it’s not, I’m afraid you will find, for a mind-maker-upper to make up his mind.” said Dr. Seuss once.
Perhaps counting, perhaps reading or staying home. Perhaps writing, singing or a mix of all.