still feel the ghost of your skin touching my face.
Even after so long, so much pain, scrape your skin even walking from my memory.
And do not I have left, or leave me, or how it might enrich
Carrying the memory of your eyes on my shoulders, forever.
The sweet tone of a song bohemian oblivion I find my solace, comfort and most of
, seconds feel itchy in my memory.
I die again and again to lose in it, and the only guests the wake are the stars, since neither the worms get to keep life in the vacuum of my body.
