There was a time

"So, it's not a stormy night. And for a part of the people, officially it is not a night, not yet. In any case, people ignores the bright horizon, not for a question of Saturday, it is the cause of the city. Buildings stole the landscape and all possible sunsets with the memories inside. Time is a question of a picture with the "like" added. The second exists if it's labeled. So, cheers for non-existent times and for the confidential stories, clandestine tales lived and written in the skin of the lovers after a simple light in the street. The road of illumination (of the street) brings me to your lips. After is the way to the obscure desire (without pics).

Only the men who have lost, known the calm when the phantoms of the time appears in a night in the lips of other woman, now. Freedom in a bright city, hidden from the prisoners of the time, the name of the phantom arrives, and I can't remember her voice. And I don't know if her face is the same of the dreams and frustrations. But the calm in a hot night in October is normal, when the name is only accompanied by an "I loved her a lot". And the fiction is mixed with the real Today, just a fantasy before forget. Yes, sometimes people learns to be forgetful to return the importance of the present, in the deepest place where the feelings are in protection.

The phantom is diffuse. It is not possible to build a face or a body. There are not any light in the eyes and the voice is only a lips movement. There are not any noise. Just some words but not a sound. Written words. Any breath or sigh. Nothing new to say. Silence. Nothing new to hear. A name with six consecutive characters and the image of the Today lover. The phantom is only a picture of a forgiven album to see for others in other times; the times to understand the end of this civilisation when the love is convenient and the friendship is a quimera. 

There was a time, the love was important and sex was not enough. Lovers write poems and a kiss was not the first step, it was the beginning of the only possible story. But, it is not question of nostalgia or sad songs of only three or two minutes with laments. Now, the love is important too but it is not a question only of drama: is pleasure. The tragic world needs moments of the new tales to resist the week and the dark lonely nights. A new memory to survive a good bye. Love is eternal, but lovers are entities meet in a limit space. Tomorrow, may be the morning will be stormy.  There a lot of love, as songs. 

Yes, I understand that you want a chest where you rest your head and not my tongue in your sex or your lips in mine. And I accept your regrets. In the paradise lost, it is possible to find the fire before the hell, some figures to understand in lies the awful true without understand that there are not necessary any explanation. The love is a word with the significance for each one, but not for everyone. These times are for someone but not for all. It is not possible to survive if the oldest tales are in the present, and we are fear when the phantoms appears... other stories are in the present until the dawn, then the souls sleep to scape. 

Searching the same unknown star, the silence is interrupted by the same song, but is not a love song. It is a song to enjoy the life, if the end arrives now. When the fog comes and catches the mountains in the other part of the city, however the light of the buildings and the screen of the mobiles, the poem of the mountain is free to be part of the moment when the naked bodies are found in the same space to build the new memory. Yes, there was a time (since I don't have you and you don't have me) I found the bright of her breath... Nevertheless, it is possible to be alone with a white page to start to write... yes, there was a time..."