No me tomas, but you don't let me go either and when I decide to leave, stop thinking about you, and forbid me to be inspired in you, you come back asking let love make you.
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I stopped covering my skin, when I found myself thinking of you all the time, when it was impossible for me to deny that my mind already belonged to you entirely. There was still some fear in my heart, I'd been hurt before, so falling in love wasn't a conscious choice. It just happened.
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You say you love her. But you ghost her emotions. You flinch when she cries. You roll your eyes when she's "too much." You leave the room when things get deep. You blame stress, work, needing space, needing time, being tired.
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“I walked along this road so feeble, desperate and alone. With calloused hands and calloused feet; no place to call my own. Four walls and ceilings. Four walls and ceilings.
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There is a new pandemic that hardly anyone talks about, and yet it has long arrived in the midst of our society - silent, invisible, linked to shame, taboo, self-doubt and an anger that does not scream but is silent.
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Many people say: 👉 "Not only did I like him, he made me feel at home. ” 👉 “I got hooked on how he looked after me. ” 👉 "With that person I felt rest, not just desire. ” And they often hear the same thing:
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How could I call you that, if losing me in you feels closer to heaven than any hell?
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Was to stop holding back. For a long time I wanted to hold people, places and emotions that were already following their own path. Creía que amar era retener.
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I want to drunk my heart with the taste of your kisses That your look in love, spill through my body and you invent caresses with the tip of your fingertips, facts flames.
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The other day, someone asked me, “What is love to you?” And I thought about it for a second, and I said, Love is choosing someone over and over again, even when you know it can’t work.
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I keep the taste of your lips like caramel, with the white clouds covering the sky, removing fears. I lay your back caressing me as I sleep, with the noise your eyes make while kissing you.
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She's one of those women that everyone would call weird, but she just enjoys sunsets, the sound of the sea and the rain. Poetry does not die if it has a soul of a girl and a heart plastered to the old, lover of simplicity and the details of life. She's explosive if offended, cheesy when
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