I would have written a thousand verses. Would come up rhymes and rhythms to offer it every morning when your hair is still tangled in my chest. A stroll down the Gran Via at dusk now appears in my memory, vivid and real, as if he were going to take that money to that guy who played the sax like nobody else. And then there's your smile, your long black coat as an August night. And those days when I could eat the world by his feet because you were there beside me in the plaza, the sun, beer and nothing else. He did not need anything else. Maybe just one book and one album of Leonard Cohen. Insufferable is empty now when I see that this is nothing more than tattered past. And you'll fill the days and evenings you'll enjoy another as I did then, and not do it again. Because the evidence that you broke the mold can not be disputed. Why spend my days invaded by the idea that it is a waste of time to continue looking for other patterns, because argue the comparison. And I know you can not live a comparison, but what can you do when reality is presented in such a clear and painful. When you remove bandages and opens your eyes forever. Just accept reality and stop believing that, like it or not, life goes on with a thousand options open.
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