g.

I still think of you sometimes.

The transient idea of talk to you appears at the hidden corners of my mind, and it grows until it becomes an itch that deprives me from sleep. I’m starting to dream when a memory of warmth, flashes like a firefly; the reminiscence of blind kisses beneath the sheets at dawn.

For a moment I wonder in the possibility of finally receiving a response from you.

What if this time you answer my letters, and we talk about the forbidden? I want to tell you I’m sorry, and I want to listen from you that it wasn’t my fault.

Now I force myself to remember us, in order to let you go. I don’t know how to explain it; even though it doesn’t ache as it did before, most of the time I ponder on this like a wounding memory, I try not to.

I guess after all, I’m just looking for approval; the assurance that when this (inside me) comes to and end, we still are, and we are okay.