viernes, 14 de agosto de 2015

Talk to me. Tell me the things. I don't care what the things are, what do you want to tell me, just tell me. I want you to talk to me, to tell me about your most hated dreams, about your beloved nightmares.
I won't mind if you're tired of me and want some time apart, I'll understand. Maybe I'll break a plate or two, swish a tear, and even won't smile much after that, but I'll be okay, and I'll be knowing what you wanted, so it'll be okay. If you want to come running back to me, just come, and please yell it aloud on your way to my open arms.
If it happens that you love me and you want to tell me about it, do it, tell me. Look into my eyes, gently hold my face into your warm hands and whisper close to my little lips that you love me, 'cause if you don't, I will, because I love you and there's nothing I can do against it.
And if you want to tell me that you don't love me anymore, for the sake of what you love the most, then, tell me. Stop the walking, stop the holding hands, stop the gazing into the sunlit eyes, and tell me, 'cause I'll be fine, and you'll be free.
Yes, I'll cry right there on the sidewalk, under the sun, over the cracks underneath my feet. Yes, I won't be able to talk to you, that if I survive a choking scream or a million tears.
But at some point I'll stop. I'll lift my head, I'll look right into the sun, and I'll give you my heart, my broken-in-million-pieces heart, and you'll go and do whatever the hell you like with it, because it's not mine anymore, it never was.
And I'll be fine.
Because you told me.

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