When Sophie told me she and I were more than ancient history there is this quite a while, it made me a little trouble. Too many tears have been shed, too, amplifying the inside for the show that I was accustomed to give. Show rather than conceal, all except anger. It is the only emotion that I still can not live at full intensity. Everything is always diluted by a reason, a motivation. It is probably this love of imperfections that prevent me from wishing for eternity to anyone. short, I believe she once said, sitting on my sofa. Another time when standing up after the door handle. And one last before closing our eyes to a few weeks of attendance. She probably wanted I shall keep it, but I did nothing. She could conclude that the text message too long explaining to me why time is subjective and that I am better to give attention to the bed than in real life. She preferred a series of dead ends which I have not deigned to come out.
Sometimes when I spend my Saturday nights to listen to TV shows confused because I'm too broke to do anything else, I miss her. I miss his kisses and his complaints about his life monochrome. No, actually I'm only missing those evenings when sprayed his body slid inevitably under my sheets until she left each time hoping I asked him to stay. These sweet moments should definitely last longer.
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