Licked the paper to seal the last letter to let you know that I loved you, wrote all the tiny pieces of each part of that stupid songs that remind me of you. Taped it with a ridiculous colorful Toucans on top.

I did already forgot the post code we shared, still caring on me the spelling of your last name.

How many bridges will we blow up?

A page made without filter that distilled endless resignation for a month on my desk, making that corner a blind spot, rescued by the red pen disposed to correct the lack of coherence of each sentence.

All the color on top will not cover the melancholia this story left behind.

Would you be able to empirically analyze us and coming up with a 5year case of study with a concrete conclusion that doesn’t end up in a piece of paper to be purchase in the mysterious academic universe?

The writing carries our soul, between the lines we leave the incompressible connection that decipher us, I don’t know how many pieces of it are left here, how many pieces I have naively thrown into the polluted air.