I think that living is the understanding that everything is gonna be Ok, knowing that it won't.
Is the juice that keeps us going, the sweet song that you just can't remember the name.
The stupid drop of sauce that always spill on your shirt.The text that you write, but delete because of fear.
The butterfly that insist on flying inside every time that you smell the perfume that she used to put on.
But who I am saying? I am just another poet, another broken soul an unfinished song.