Memories,
so nice and other times
depressives,
My conscience full my mind
and make me stop.
The tension on the air it is the mark that
yesterday had desire
and now it is only oblivion;
not for me, but for you.
Opened wounds that minute by minute
are healed,
but they are reopened when you insists in
make me think about the past,
that you trepass and mark it,
and then, you leave it.
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