Have you ever read "Romeo and Juliet"?
Have you really read it, or are you a believer?
It's a love story that lasted three days
Everyone dies in the end
All things are fine
I find it kind of funny
The only time I don't feel lonely is when I am alone
Why would I dive in other people ever again?
Why do I still try? All relationships are like "Romeo and Juliet", some longer, some shorter
But we already know the end.

I collect good memories from dark times, though they never happened.
Why do blue flowers become green when they die?
Have you ever noticed red roses turn purple when they dry?
She's a whole new garden
I dwell in my fear of all the things that never happened to me.
I sink in the thought I'm just an old rusty farmer, it's time I learn how to plant something new.
And maybe one day, a not so distant day, I'll let it grow with no hesitation.

Mother promised me one day we would go to the moon, I guess I could never trust a woman after that ever again.
The butterflies in your stomach didn't feed you for too long darling, did they?
I see you starving and denying me away.
It's like a distant waltz we dance, one step closer and two steps further.
I used to hate father for being so cruel, I understand now he was just being honest.
I show you the rare bright yellow moon on a cloudy night, you say it's "pretty" but there's no more meaning than that.
Everytime I put up flowers on the bedside, you wake up and thank me with a kiss that fells bad.
I guess we got lost somewhere between the first ice cream and the last shared song.
I am still chanted by your surreptitious smile, I wonder if your laughter is still the same after you you see me being clumsy or if you're just playing along.
You were in love, I was charmed. The table has turn, don't you think?
For the first time I am not mad. You told me from the start "that's about that: I overdose food, drugs, people, life. I get bored and move on. You're like a vast ocean, and I never learnt to swim".
Open doors left behind, half a story told. I'd rather live a tragedy than be left in an alley with half a book.
Stage me up. We waltz one more day, I'll be the one aching in the end of that song.

"You play it perfectly, just like a recipe. But I don't want it perfect, I want it your way. Spread some identity over it".
She gives me an advice and I lose myself.

Pianissimo/Andante

I am ten years old. My parents had an argue. I reach for my mother with a glass of water, my brother is at school. With my right hand I set the glass in front of her, with my left hand I caress her shoulder. She screams at me and shove the glass on the ground. I am my mother's spilled water.
This is a memory.

Mezzo-forte/Vivace

I am thirteen years old. My father takes me to lunch. The whole time he complains about life and how things are going nowhere with my mother, still we have a good time together. With my right hand I hold the chopsticks, with my left hand I play with the napkin. Our eyes never cross, but we are in touch. I am at peace with them both. I am my father's cigarettes.
This is a lie.

Mezzo-piano/Andante

I am fourteen years old. My brother takes me to the movies everytime things get bad at home. Sometimes we watch two or three movies in a row, never go back before sunset. With my right hand I hold a cup of ice tea, with my left hand I check on his phone. I am my brother's merciful escapes.
This is an illusion.

"Did you hear me? You did a great job! Start practicing changing the dynamic, how does that sound?"

I thank her and leave. Such standard words, she must say them to many more students, no idea the impact they caused on me. I guess I am just doomed to overthinking anything at all. You see, that's the deal. With the right hand, play the melody, with the left hand, play the harmony. I guess I've been focused on the melody, in a world run by the harmony.
On my way home I stop to buy a pack of cigarettes. I light one up and set it on a table, watch it burning. I've quit smoking sometime ago, never really cared for the rush, much less for the taste. After all it's just about seeing how easy the smoke flies by.
I guess I will change the dynamic. From now on:

Crescendo

I wake up earlier than her, so I have time to make some breakfast.
Everytime she wakes while I am cooking, leans on the wall next to the oven, wearing nothing but the shirt I was using last night.
"How come you cook shirtless? - That's so unusual"
"Did you ever expect anything ordinary  when you pass through that door?"
"How can you be so poetic so early?"
"How can you not be?"
She laughs, I smile.
I set the food on the bed for her. I lay down by her side with my arms caressing her hair.
"Won't you eat?"
"I'm ok."
She giggles, I stare.
The tangles through my fingers, so mahogany, sometimes almost crimson... Maybe I am color blind, maybe I am making myself a fool again. Yes, a fool again.
"You know, if you keep on doing things like that I might get used to it, maybe come back more often."
"You won't, you are too afraid for that."
"Must you always be so real?"
"Why should I not be? Would you be here at all otherwise?"
She smiles, I laugh silently.
We shower, I dress. I sit in the couch staring through that no curtains window for half an hour or so, rain always makes me smile. I guess that's why I indulge myself to another storm.

Here I stand again, by myself
In a different spot, in the same moment.
I've been all my life running through these cycles,
New people, new girlfriend, new activities, new place
As they always do, at some point they run low and I run far,
I keep my distance, enough to get warm, enough so I won't get burnt.
Even so, in the end, I make the
same mistake, everytime a season falls
I stretch out from this safe sacred shell I've built to
protect myself, only to regret leaving, only to regret ever even
building it in the first place. So, as the last leaf falls I'll be there, getting close to the fire and the certainty of getting a deep burn.
I feel pathetic, do you know what pathetic means? It's not what you'd expect,
I'm not what you'd expect,
you're all more than I expected.
Maybe that's my sin, to burn for not letting people in earlier,
to burn and realise it's ok. You don't have to fall in love today, not again. Just kiss her and move on. You don't have to feel alone today, not again. Just hug them and move on.    Tomorrow a new season begins, maybe for a day, maybe for five more years, maybe the last you will ever see.
Do you see some sort of metric in this "poem"? Do you see it's shape unfolding right through your eyes as you read? You're mistaken, it means nothing, it's much simpler than you think, I can never convince you of that, though. And, as the cicada's song, our cycle repeats, it's funny;
It's tragic;
It's real.