November: Crimson sun

It’s November, the weather is still hot but it will surely get cold on the end of the month. I can’t wait to start studying again. Everything was pure on a day before sunsets, and I’m trying to restore that solid moments of happiness. The leaves are fallen and prepare it self to a new cycle. I’m going to write with my tears, I don’t have other time to live. It’s time to bring the best in us, live wholly and truly. We are still young and I want to age gracefully, shine brighter through the years. It’s a vision that I created for myself, I want to live through pressed flowers, lavender breath, sweet November air with smells of books and fruits on a rainy day. It’s the sensational life that we observe first and what lie a head it’s a reflection of the mind, in its essence and its complexity. I want to write so I can see myself on papers; diagnose myself and find my identity between the letters. It’s for you who I write and me who I see. So, open your eyes gently and breath under the oak tree, you’re the king of your path. It’s you who I dream of, your lips presses against mine, you smell of oud and umber on jasmine, you told me you will never leave me, you told me I was like honey, years gone by now and I knew with time as it passes by that I will never here your voice again. Here I am covering my eyes with one hand in an empty room full of only darkness, I don’t want to hear voice, I don’t want to hear a voice.