You are like something that is going to happen one day, like that other poem that no one has said yet, like a cold picture frame sitting on the wall, like tears that are slowly dripping on the guitar string, the guitar string in your hand, like picking a red apple, like a small chest that I write: without you, never... Without you, never... Without you, never
you, like an event that is going to happen one day , like that bitter poem that no one has said yet , like a cold picture frame sitting on the wall , like tears that drip softly on the guitar string, without you, never without you, never without you, never your
hand, like picking a red apple , like a small chest that I write, without you, never like the heat of a desert, then a prayer for rain, like a pattern. The horoscope of coffee on the alleys of
your cup is like something that is going to happen one day , like that other poem that no one has said yet , like a cold picture frame sitting on the wall , like tears that drip softly on your guitar string, like
