Disperatamente

Here I am

Writing again

to you. As I always do. 

And hoping you to read me.

Hopeless, I hope you still read me,

while waiting for the night

bus or the last train.

I know you're out there,

living the dream, walking

in those golden streets.

But I hope, hopeless, you remember

(us)

Through the slepeless nights,

or the rainy days,

I write, waiting for you

to read (me).

Oh love, read my words

as you once read my soul.

Oh, and love my words

as you once loved me.

I know. You really never did.

You never loved.

I never loved.

We both promised not to.

Yet, we fell for each other.

(Isn't it ironic?)

Full of hope and inspiration,

I write, hopeless, something with the shape of a poem

without rhymes or coherence.

But, dear, that's exactly what you (we) are (were):

A senseless poem,

full of flaws,

sins,

love.

We are what we never were.

And, my love,

You know, I never wanted this.

I never wanted you to read me

and, certainly,  never wanted you

at all.