There are still traces of humidity,
Her scent fills now my solitude,
On the bed, her silhouette
Is drawn like a promise
To fill the brief space
In which she is not.
I still do not know whether she will return,
No one knows, the next day, what she will do.
She breaks all of my frameworks,
She does not confess to a single sorrow,
She does not ask for anything in exchange
For what she gives.
She tends to be violent yet tender,
She does not speak of eternal union,
But she gives herself as if there were
Only one day to love.
She does not partake in gatherings,
Yet she likes the song
That compromises her thought.
I still have not asked, "Will you stay?"
I am very much afraid of the response, "Never."
I would rather share her
Than empty out my life.
She is not perfect
Yet she resembles what I
simply dreamed of.