At least

Pass the time and do not rest your desire on my life, your life on my shadows, your shadows on our light, which is life. Who am I to silence your barking, to stop you if you run if I salt your wounds. Who knows skip to the feeling, bandage the calm, erase songs. Who learned to win the race to the emotion, the calm look, the verse of love. Maybe the losers did not feel, did not know how to want. I wonder if anyone who loves is able to escape, not look back without their guts. If you dare to think of white, not to look for the traces or to smell the essences with which he went mad. It is not possible that there is someone who can take the reason out of the heart to give it to the head.

Sometimes the road becomes long, and even eternal. Others, the ones that I am with you, the shortcuts take us through scenes that I do not forget. We buried time and lived, and we laughed. And it is in your eyes where there is no emptiness but refuge, in your arms I protect myself and in your nested skin. Nothing like holding your hand, talking about anything, getting drunk on the peace of silence, being accomplices, knowing what we are thinking, not measuring words and gestures. Just be, like the first time, like the last. Know us and know that we have.

We had the paradox. Sometimes yes sometimes no. White or black. All or nothing. And so we learned to grow, to know ourselves, to strengthen ourselves, to suffer and to feel. We started the other way around. From bottom to top. From fear of courage. From darkness to light, from ashes to candles. From madness to madness. And I still learn at your side, the lights and shadows that corner our fight. Of the stories that repeat, of the loops without end. Of the races, of the blows, of the absences, of the nights, of the sheets without brand new. Sounds absurd, from another time, it is not understood. What else, if you and I understand.

It is complicated to write between potholes. We can not deny that it costs our life to start and advance, but also to end. If there is a heart, we are not finished. It is a war in which we do not capitulate, we surrender but to the embraces. We sharpen the sword but then we save it. We cling to the kisses and throw the artillery into the first container we see. We took a white flag and devoured ourselves, first in bed and then among lions of pride and coldness.

And so is our history. No more no less. With ups and downs. With pulls to the shirt and the tranquility. With insomnia and sleepless nights drenched in beer. With all kinds of thrusts. With passion to win and lose. With madness and the folly of first love. A project that was born out of nothing and by chance, without wanting it, without looking for it. That he has taught me to love you, to respect you, to accept you, to take you and to 'put up with you'. To be true to my feelings, above all else. It is a slow but safe learning. Of those who rearm me and keep me. And, above all, those who make me aware of what I want.

Three times five. At least.