Querida.
Esta noche murió, en la pena de tus besos, un amor imaginario que solo yo sentía. Taciturno, mi corazón, tierno y herido, aun te espera, y si por mi fuera, esta noche no acabará.
Queriendo que llegues en hora buena. Esta noche será eterna.
Hoy volví a encontrarte, y es que te encuentras en cada esquina.
¿Por que no has vuelto?
Ya me he deshecho de cada recuerdo, quemado, perdido, o roto, pero hoy encontré el ultimo, y recordé que olvidé decirte que, desde que ya no estás aprendí a cocinar, pero no es para ti, y que lastima que mientras el café se enfría yo solo te pienso, sentado, vacío, desecho, como tu recuerdo, con mi mente cansada.
soy el escritor sin ganas de escribir.
Nuestra vida fue un teatro, fingiendo todo lo que decias y es que ayer soñé contigo y me extrañabas. pero recordé que solo fue una mala obra.
Creo que mi mejor forma de expresarte es escribiendo.
Tal vez por que cuando me lees tomas mis palabras mas en cuenta, o por que cuando me escuchas me tomas menos en serio.
¿Quien eres?
Pensamientos que nunca diras.
Cartas que nunca seran entregadas.
Palabras que jamas seran escuchadas
Eres tan mortal como cualquiera.
y nada difiere entre tu y el resto de los mortales.
Palabras vacias, en sitios que ahora estan vacios.
de nada vale el recuerdo.
Fin.
Dear.
Tonight died, in the pain of your kisses, an imaginary love that only I felt. Taciturn, my heart, tender and wounded, still awaits you, and if it were up to me, tonight will not end.
Wanting you to arrive at good time. This night will be eternal.
Today I found you again, and you are on every corner.
Why haven't you come back?
I have already gotten rid of every memory, burned, lost, or broken, but today I found the last one, and I remembered that I forgot to tell you that, since you are no longer here, I learned to cook, but it is not for you, and that it hurts that while coffee it gets cold I just think about you, sitting, empty, discarded, like your memory, with my tired mind.
I am the writer without the desire to write.
Our life was a theater, pretending everything you said and is that yesterday I dreamed of you and you missed me. But I remembered that it was just a bad deed.
I think my best way of expressing yourself is writing.
Maybe because when you read me you take my words more into account, or because when you listen to me you take me less seriously.
Who you are?
Thoughts you'll never say
Letters that will never be delivered.
Words that will never be heard
You are as deadly as anyone.
and nothing differs between you and the rest of the mortals.
Empty words, in places that are now empty.
the memory is useless.
End.
Hice este trabajo original de principio a fin, escribiendo en Wordpad, La imagen de portada es de mi propiedad, tomada con un Samsumg J2pro, editandola yo mismo con PhotoScape.
Traducido del español al ingles por Google Traductor, con intención de dar lo mejor para los lectores, y que mas personas puedan leerlo.
Te invito a comentar que te ha parecido.
I did this original work from start to finish, writing in Wordpad, The cover image is my property, taken with a Samsumg J2pro, editing it myself with PhotoScape.
Translated from Spanish to English by Google Translator, with the intention of giving the best for readers, and that more people can read it.
I invite you to comment what you think.
Copyright @Mercurio27 - All right's reserved.
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