She prefers the fantasy.

It is cosmic. It is almost perfect.

She prefers what she can't see,

what she can't taste.

Once she killed herself to live.

She bled happily.

(he had died)

Sometimes when she is lonely,

she lies where he is, feeling the sun

engulfing her in a strange peace, weeping,

just weeping.

With closed eyes, she sees him.

(she still sees him)

Real life blinds her.

She protects her heart, building walls,

seeking refuge in shells, casting spells

to stay invisible forever.

(she doesn't want to love anymore)

She has closed many doors.

She wants that ferocious enchantment

so she clings to the impossible and flies away.

Sometimes when she is dancing in front of the mirror,

he is there watching her hands and feet in red

but her light is dead.

She lost her delicacy when she lost him.

Her dance still brings her soul back.

But she can't see the future. Oh! It is dim!

I think her heart is an island miles away

from here.

I look at her and I see the past too,

He is at the airport, he is coming back,

She is running towards him, shouting I love you.

How many times can we love?

How many times can we die?

She has just closed more one door

and longs to open the window again.

The fall is lighter than the pain.

Karla Bardanza

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