Doesn’t live anymore

Aclaración, este escrito no es mio, es de una muy buena amiga; Valeria Posada, no sé si sea así  pero quiero creer soy una de las pocas personas que pueden llegar a entender/sentir a la perfección lo que estas palabras transmiten, espero les guste.

Her juvenile expression drowns in between the shadow of his smile. Keeping his mind tugged in the little details of that last day he caught a glimpse of her, he recovered the bitter taste of the shining sun on his tears. Softly and yet furiously tearing apart each inch of his joy, her embrace seemed too expensive to keep but too valuable to let go. 

Now it’s hard to remember every vivid detail in the vibration of her voice and the marks of her face fade reluctantly within the mind of another man. He doesn’t have nothing to their own as he prohibited any presence of her in his present and the echo of a crowd of thoughtless and instant actions just rain in his heart constantly bringing then the cold of an empty and soundless pain. A pain that ceases to absorb him completely but that leaves a deaf and disturbing screech in his conscience. 

Reasons to talk disappear as the clock ticks the light of another day and she stays there, in the infinite gray of past yearns and concerns. Repeating feelings, poses and places she commences and finishes the same actions as it was done before- although loosing piece by piece the words that came with it-. 

Standing there waiting for him, looking directly at his face or maybe sitting on the grass floor, she jokes at his old remarks once again. Her hands go on the same place, her gestures come back and forth depending on the slot selected and the breaking of his heart is sniffed in an invariable platform. Almost as it was performed mechanically every time it’s revived, she walks right through the final stage leaving to no new outcome. The credits are all painted in black and a few melancholic songs spread out to receive the epilogue of the story. 

Every twenty four hours it’s much harder for her to stay in control of his emotions because they begin to lose themselves in the resignation of circumstances. He wonders, he doubts, speculates and imagines how the distance must be felt for the same woman who stands in the tiny strands of his memory. After all –he affirms-that is just nonsensical wondering because he knows surely, practically flawlessly that the woman inside his remembrance doesn’t live anymore…

Valeria Posada