I had seen them separately
for summer months in several occasions
both frail but different.

She was melancholic.
He was depressed.

He would want to **** what ever came his way
She wouldn't because her wound was still puffy and prickling.
Maybe she still wanted him to **** her, but would never admit.
He roamed around young flesh and devoured every possible minute of sensation.
swallowing all kind of crap for a hand of youth.
They were both in a golden cage of their thirst for blossom.
Such sadness.
The more they spoke the more it never made sense to me.
Maybe that was the trick.
They took away time I will never get back, time when they had it was spent differently.
I would rather make love and wonder the streets with miracles of the skies.
Instead I am looking at all these people running around with these suitcases they carry full of their history crap.
Soon I ll get one for myself and stand to a much younger than me who looks at the world with the eyes of a five years old.
It's inevitable, they told me.
No one will know that I am alive. It will be late at night, beautiful beer bottles and a suitcase.