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Love is when you decided to come along.

Fall in love with some who makes you feel lucky. Whose snoring sounds like music. Whose crushing hugs in the middle of the night are better than anyone's. Who knows where to tickle you. Who knows when it's time to order pizza. Who loves to walk with you under the rain, leaving it as background. Who calculates the minutes out loud on the phone based on his current speed and distance left when driving to your house. Who shares your love for things and books. Whose chest is the perfect pillow.
Finally, fall in love with someone who lets you breath, but can still make you breathless.

But these are only words. Words coming from something I thought I felt. Or I did. And just forget how it actually stroke me, right now. This empty vessel. So all I have are these pretty words, a charmer poet singing to the passing beautiful one, not to anyone in specific. That hopeless romantic who is just waiting to love, and doesn't realize how unfair he can be to the one who is waiting to be loved, expecting this new person to fall into a conception of love the poet already has. Never date a woman who writes, they say. Or a woman who travels alone. And how to go on about that, only knowing what we are made of. Like when I ran four miles, just to see what I was made of, how much blood running through my veins would make me feel alive. What was I made of.

A writer is only made of, born from love deceptions. A writer with a constant lover is a cheesy bag of words, the text everyone has read before. A writer deceived and sad is a grotesque fountain of inspiration, it’s himself within. Oh, I have loved. I have loved the days, I have loved our hours, I have loved even our conversations in my head. The way you smiled and looked at my eyes turning to the side, uncapable of eye contact. And the way you turned your back, and the way I looked directly at you doing it. 

Could I have stopped you? Should I have? Me, a defender of the personal rights to come and go? Oh dear, I could not leave my convictions like that to rot, and I could not make you love me any longer than you planned to. 

And as it started to fade away, your memories, your aquarela drawings inside my multi-tasking head, I started to ask myself: have I truly loved you. Have I truly loved anyone, at all. So I made peace with the negative answer. 

Like the poet said: love is not the time, and it is not made by time, love is just the moment when I moved on and you decided to follow me.

So you took off, and I sat there. I sat there with your drinks next to me. An empty seat. That’s all you were. So I cleared my heart, this war zone after battle, I took care of its soil and I’ll let the birds bring whatever seeds they intend to. Whatever will grow here will be a work of the wind, the occasional and of myself letting it happen and prosper.

Love is the moment. And I have to be faithful to the overlapse of time. Moving on. 

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