With all that my life is and has been, how can my heart still be so fragile?
Cursed in the infatuation with romance, cursed by something fueled by the need for a life that dances with poetry, cursed by dreams and condemned to the permanent adolescence of the heart, the symptom of the disease, the disease is romance. The disease is a blessing. What else but the heart of a child can see utopia in grains of sand and a bucket?
Hopeless? Yes, but look again.
In all of the words, in all of the lines somewhere between there is hope.
What is a hopeless romantic without hope?
Perhaps I am a fool but I prefer to think not. Perhaps a fool and if so I would rather be a fool with dreams than an empty man with a paper heart. I don’t suffer fools well.
I kissed you with all of me. I kissed you with the life of me and felt yours. I kissed you with my heart and there was only one then, only one between us and it was ours and in your arms, in your eyes there was no need for words.
Perhaps I am a fool but I prefer not to think so. If I am I will suffer myself gladly. Better a fool still believing in romance and the flight of dreams than a heart that dies of starvation. I only ask for anything but silence. Anything. Either spit in my face or kiss it once again. In your silence nothing is complete and I vanish.