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It is not enough for me to dream, if I wake up again in the same story, knowing that it will never be written or told. It is not enough for me to be a polyglot, if I cannot say clearly what prevented us from being happy.
It is not enough for me to try to reach the sky, if I have not learned to walk firmly on the face of the earth.
It is not enough for me to say that I feel immortal, for I die when I wake up alone. It's not enough for me to find fault, if there were no situations to erase your caresses from my mind.
It's not enough for me to define if this is part of a plea or simply a poem born from a memory of other lives.
I feel that my dreams vanish like bubbles, that words get stuck in my throat, that the unreachable sky mocks my incapacity.
And in the dark of night, when my eyes open to loneliness, I feel myself dying again and again, unable to erase the memory of your arms from my memory.
Is it a desperate plea or just a poem trying to make sense of this emptiness? I don't know, I just know that nothing I do seems to be enough to fill this abyss that has opened up inside me.
Maybe it's time to let go, to accept that some stories were not written to be told.
But even so, I refuse to give up this dream, these words that I cannot utter, this longing to reach the unreachable.
Because deep inside me, I know that there are still possibilities, that maybe in another life, in another time, we can meet again and have the happiness that escaped us.