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and knocked on his door ...

not expect any visits, and surprise, wanted to cover before opening their fragility.

had long been stripped of his skin, leaving it on an empty bed, her eyes lay inert perched on a corner and his heart ... I had forgotten that was hanging in the closet of the fund, between feeling spent and empty-handed.

returned to knock on the door and, even knowing naked and exposed, convinced her curiosity. With trembling soul opened, allowing the unrest, as a bolt, bar him from entering so handsome visitor.

For the small crack trace their desires and saw him.

The attraction he felt for him was as large as the hesitation of his thoughts, cowards, conspired against itself. The questions shouted from inside so strong it tore his gaze and replaced the splendid vision for a worn photograph of his fears renewed. Was afraid to walk outside, afraid to leave the familiar paths, fear of losing something that was lost ...

convinced her hot skin that winter came forward, indecision gagged his mouth and he turned, his eyes fearful, a mere whim, crazy girl illusion. And not to be too fickle forgot your boldness.

The banging echoed in his head and then ran disoriented. Her feet took her to the only place I knew by heart, the imam of the custom. He took refuge in that drawer that had once lovingly embraced his being, but now was uncomfortable and cold.

And so, huddled in the hand of a shared loneliness and a fake normal life began to fade.

... love had knocked on his door, but she was scared ...
... maybe came at an inopportune time ...
... unable to jump into the void ...
... and if ... COWARD

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always be Paris

stones cry your high walls, before the passage of time, moisture that slide and walk through your streets, leaving the ground shaking full of mirrors in the eyes of visitors.

Dilute your scents in the air, rubber burning in your gut, of sadness dissolved in your water.

A gray blanket envelops you and you icy melancholy disguises, take refuge under your bridges alike forgotten drunken breath and loving hearts.

And at night you dress up and show you magnificent, romancing scholars and poets, going crazy to most sane of the prophets.

-French version previously

Les pierres your walls cry from the heights, before the passage of time. Moisture slides and a walk in your streets leaving the ground full of mirrors, which titillate before the eyes of merchants. Diluted

dan air travel your aromas, burnt rubber in your womb, suicidal sadness of your waters.

one gray-covered ice you melancholy disguises. Under your bridges, refugees, lovers entwined as well as drunken breath forgotten.

the night with your lights dressed, you watch life making fools of brilliant intellectuals and poets, paying court to the wisest of prophets.

Paris I always be thinking of you
... and forget about it
I will always love Paris to die
... and
empty my heart I'll always keep
Paris to mourn ... for my

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I do not want to hear you girl

... and his lips decided to forget him. Little whispers at first, screaming in full voice then his ears were convinced. Deaf to feel.

But today his immunity wears off, and although he does not listen when he speaks, drifts into the dark pit of your eyes. That pit where they lost a night which was unable to leave because he would not accompany her because he already had his hands full.

exploit no longer smiles on those lips, they just sprout resentful words. Ironic phrases that conceal and reveal, in turn, chills running through his back when he appears on stage.

And he'll notice distant, and he see it lost, wandering around the corners of his mind ... in the distance, gray single woman without an umbrella with rain in his eyes. A gesture hides severe plastic sufficiency today smiling baby face.

Picking up the shreds of her princess dress, she turns her back and walks away ...

" not hear the beating of his own heart "

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Nonsense mindless conformist and hopelessly

Another year draws, capricious, memories in my retina. Insists on letting go notches on my face, even imperceptible, and emptying the pockets of dreams. Is that without realizing it, the time open grooves in my skin, scratching my body with hands on experience.

dangerously
I approach the age when they say that "we must settle down." Well forgive me, but my head is still the best place for birds (and some other specimens which will not talk more today.)

Today we must talk about crisis, influenza and football. Today at 30 you have to be mortgaged, with steady job, preferably married and with children on the way ... Now I'm drowning, I'm melting in my own Maverick forward. Looks

parental cross and condemn me for mindless. Comments fraternal screaming that I have no choice. Friendly winks trying not to listen to nonsense in C major. Sitting

waterfront hugging my loneliness, I try to keep the sand slipping through my fingers. Am I the only one you try? Illusions shoes so far I have been wearing on the road and now my bare feet want to reinvent the way, off the road, through forests, deserts and steppes.

My eyes will not be looking back, looking to find a smile broken and gagged by forgotten dreams, lost and not tried.

"... I'm going to be different, I will be me ..."