Nostalgia is filled with colorful drawings.

I do not know if it’s me.
After all, I come across you and you do not see me.
It’s a quarter past eight,
and life is still stopped in this season.
My suitcase bursting with dreams weighs,
charge with her,
but I can not with her.
I do not know if it’s me,
in the end,
You do not recognize my voice
The breeze does not return and the withered leaves remain in this painting to which I belong,
and I would like to escape out of this quartered canvas that is a life without you,
far from the wait,
dawning between your pages, through your lips,
towards thought.
I do not know if it’s me,
or are you,
or life itself that is lost to me.
I regret the absence in your eyes,
I regret the word not pronounced …
I should not have clung to silence and wandered through this desert.
Loneliness comes down in every drop of rain,
and nostalgia is filled with colorful drawings,
winged by time and memory.
Not these.
The station silenced without encounters.
the walk rigged without an appointment, or kisses, or wishes.
The dust and the mist in the sea,
the sun without corners, without shadows,
the breeze without dreams, or hope.
I do not know if it’s me …
when you pass in front of me,
passenger without a ticket,
when the days are gone in my travel notebook
and they turn the pages through your eyes,
They do not see me, they do not recognize me …
I do not know if it’s me …
Not these.
After all, if you do not look for me …
it’s not me,
Maybe I never was …
Maybe I lost you …
or never was.
Or you’re just a dream,
and my suitcase bursts with dreams,
and my heart is full of dreams …
and the dream was always you.
And your dream was never me.