domingo, 13 de febrero de 2011

Dandelion. The Last dandelion.

I was there, sitting in the middle of that forest , wtaching how the sun slowly died to give birth to the brilliant moon; the cold wind blew, caressing my face, and somehow making my heart warmer, as if for a moment i knew where I belong... my hair moves,for a second I think it's dancing, and I smile, mainly because I wish I could do that.

Then the cold in my hands reminds me that I went there for a reason, I stand up and look around, I find a dandelion ,and take it sweelty between my fingers, I stare at it , as if it is the last dandelion I'll ever hold in my hands, then a part of it turns red, I'm coughing blood , so the drops reach the poor dandelion , and I cry , the warm tears collapse with the cold of my skin , and I cry.... while my lips are soaked in blood I fall on my knees, I look down , it stings a bit , they won't reach me alive,I can't remember where i left the knife, I don't care , I couldn't reach my own heart anyways, but I trust I was good enough to make it bleed this way .

The sun is almost down, I have to hurry.

I raise my head up to the sky , then I look back to the dandelion, and with the last breath my body holds.... I blow, and the dandelion fades into little particles in the sky.

And I cry.

And I cry.

And I...

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