You, quiet and alone in your kitchen, cigaretteless. Me, left tapping on your ran-streaked window, wanting you to know that everything is going to get better, and really hoping that it does.
Sometimes, he says, sliding his arm across my shoulders, people just want to be happy, even if it´s not real.
And i say. I already said too much. I already shared too much, and I want all my secrets back. I hate getting close to people these days, I always regret sharing too much, caring to much, doing to much, feeling to much.
And he said. Run my dear, from anything that may not strengthen your precious budding wings. Run like hell my dear, from anyone likely to put a sharp knife into the sacred, tender vision of your beautiful heart.