I’d love to talk to you about many things.
About clouds that disappear in the summer. Smell of the wet land after the first November rain. Trees you planted on your childhood backyard. Music that ripped out my chest. Bones you have broken to win. My everlasting fear. Your latent anger. Lies we made. Innocence we left. Sciences and theology. Politics and psychology. Imaginary friends. Box of precious goods. Complex labyrinth. Lust and jealousy. Madness and Forgiveness. Every pictures. Every words. Everything.
But in this short rendezvous, between our little muse, our fight, our redemption, let me talk to you about this: I love that I don’t need to pretend that you love me that much.