eyes, hair, fingernails

I am crazy about this girl. Does she think similar things about me? Sometimes I think not. But she is like my mirage when I have walked halfway the desert. She comforts me.

I want not to compose a life without her: this ordeal seems a white page gathering lightening-energy to invent the words. There are times that I dream of my old bones waiting for her at the end of this very long journey. And they would. I would stand with my last reserves to meet her.

Then, maybe, she now watches me as actively as I her. And maybe her body also dies a little more, like mine, every time we pass without a "hi."

All this waiting is hardship. And this not-knowing is trauma.

There are things worse than living alone: such as this living apart.

Is there a perfect land, where such things as all this never happen?

John.