He always preferred to say goodbye to the people when they were no longer in his life. So I knew for certain, through the intensity with which missed them, What were their true feelings.
I used to write large letters, trying to give shape to the confused thoughts. It was difficult to know if there were so many reasons or were wanted in hindsight.
I wrote again. Even he was about to send it once. He preferred to be a heart laid bare without eyes that may deem it.
It housed so much love inside, What used to take hours, days. A torrent of emotions culminandos deported by tears on her cheeks. At the end it felt strange, exhausted. I wanted to see it again, to avoid all that which had just write, spill.
"Don't let it be just a memory" - clearly sounded words of OA in your head, Meanwhile, He moved away reflexively.
"Who does not accept the present always live in the past" pointed to the foot of the folio as a coward.
He tore the letter and threw it in the trash.