Memories

The most dificult part is, i think, to Remember everything so well as i do; every detail, every Little one, things you'll only know about something, someone, You love so much, You dedicate yourself to apreciate it, to build an image of it in your mind, not an Idol, but a crude image, for loving is not about idealization, but about apreciation, every Little crack, every scar, every bruise, every mistake, every sound, every hair out of place, every face wrinkle, birthmark, the forms of the teeth, the shape of the nose, the silhouette, the color, the texture of the irises in your eyes

What do You do with that image after everything ends? Where can You put it, when it's extension embodies the entirely space of your already over ocupied mind, besides the trauma, right between the happy memories, adorned with the shards of your heart you've collected as the time goes by, making that image part of your heart as well, integrating it to your being and letting yourself drown in the feelings, the pain it causes to You, even when it comes to the point You aren't in peace Even in your own dreams, for dreams turn only into the Crystalized visions of your memories 

My feelings, My mind, my heart always, constantly go back there, and the feeling it's always the same, as if it were the first day, as if it were the first time, as if time passed over me and i was just left there to rot in My own filth Made of memories and feelings that wants to go back where they belong, where they want to be, but only find a wall Made of bricks painted in a certain shade of mint, where i can't see anything, and just conform with what i can imagine is behind it

But if i look up, i still can see the branches of the Orange trees, and their blooming flowers, and the heart bleeding doves making their nests with dry forgetmenots, and i sit there and hope for something to happen that could put me behind that wall and be where i want to be