Or perhaps not;
Or perhaps it's neither about the time.
Because the time I have.
But it's a surprise ending
Today I've cried for something.
And further on I don't remember any more...
Oh, of course!
The wrinkles shift from the heart
And the sadness goes away
If I put it on the face; then I put on jacket
In that way I feel to keep up
To have someone to forget
And nothing more to prove.
And one thousand nine days more.
To have something to forget
And an another to desire.
And one thousand days more.
You were already gone.
Already before becoming part
Of my fantasy.
It is a wrinkle and an embroidery.
On my clean face.
In which a few have seen a man.
But you have burned my five senses.
The sixth that you have not understood.
And one thousand days more.
But I am the five senses what I have lost.
The sixth that you have not found.
And one thousand days more.
Love that I am not able to decide
Whether to despair or to laugh.
At this night that opens eyes.
And you, who you are staining my silence
With egoism and loneliness
With uncertainity and mess.
And I make a habit
To breath strong and deep.
To swallow also the world.
Or perhaps not.
Perhaps it is not about the love.
But about the need I have.