Absolut nici o poezie, dar chiar nici una... sa ma ierte Poe, dar nici una nu transmite la fel de mult ca doua randuri scrise de un vechi prieten, pe care le intelegi si le lasi sa te inunde cu orice mic sentiment le simtea. Cand citesti o poezie proasta rau si totusi zambesti, pur si simplu trimite cu plugul capacitate de empatie. Asa ca dragi poeti clasici, sunteti voi ok, dar stati in alt cartier.
Years ago...
Fairly large an empty hall with two satin seats. You were on my right, leaned back against your own vertical spine, I was as well. You were watching the show from afar, seemingly attentive but rightfully distant. With the corner of my eye I was observing your every twist. Your torso twitching, in spasms of emotions, I took note of each and every one. I loved living through your breaths, having completely forgotten about the show in front of us. Distant... frigid. I could have almost reached you, but my nerves were caught tangled in versions of what could be, whose instant happiness guarded our skin from ever meeting. Perhaps it's in the pain of having lost a battle. What drove me on my knees with my guitar in my hands screaming "Scorch" to the tip of my lungs. As i lay in bed that night, pain overgrew me, consumed me, i had no wall. Neither did I wish to have. Now I can recall my body twitching with your same spasms of emotion. I borrowed your sublime I could not rea