And cried when follábamos. Deeply. Moaned with pleasure, but the tears rolling down your face. Cried like many other occasions. And I had come to get used to, but never understood what he had. After sitting the two in bed with a cigarette between his lips, you were trying to explain. I talked about wheat fields and bare wrists. Immense evenings as lakes. She explained something about an injury from those that are not and that never heal. Such as ulcers and bleeding. Then I pressed you against me, and you came back to mourn and I had the impression that you want me hurt. Want to hurt you, and that either fucking or listening to our favorite album would be tears Cuban Five. And since then I have a mission based on meeting you all your extension, through and through, not leaving a cell of your mind without crawling in search of a wound as old as the earth and as ubiquitous as love.
0 comments:
Post a Comment