I'm afraid to see you again, and erase one iota of the state to which this story came.
I do not know if it can be more. I doubt it and I refuse to do anything that destroys the minimum
How much is this worth to me.
After seeing what you think, I am glad to be part
Of an accomplice ... resigned ... idyllic ... real.
I refuse to remember you as one of the most sublime moments in my history
because it really is the best. Me, sitting there, without being me. You being you, and not only you.
In love with those strangers in the mirror.
I on this side, you on my chest, relaxed, with hair over your eyes.
And those two in the reflection, contrary to our principles, in this context,
as actors of a story that we direct, following the script that from outside
Only you and I understand ...
I say ... you say.
That girl, with the cute eyes, the grinning smile, soul of an angel, in stellar paper.
That guy; architect of this script. Silly and cheesy to the extreme ...
Only for the rope you give me, and the rope with which you bind me.
Two idiots ... very idiots!
Of yours. From this side.
Envy of the mirror, arrogant of the paper, unable to do more.
They, from there, look at us
With the mockery of what they are before us, free like the wind, like air
Conscious that we can only see them, and only in front of the mirror
If we leave, they no longer exist.
But they remain there forever, in a parallel life that we did
With the eternal gratitude of the linestring, plus the offset, plus the buffer
With the request that we do nothing already,
To ruin paradise
We stand outside, doubtful if we are really real
Or just the reflection of another story they built
From the other side, at the same time, not in the same space