Dear Letter:
True, they maybe more than three hundred sixty-five days that I wrote, only now has struck my memory. Today came suddenly and shake what my soul is, what my heart beats to the name you have. Because you're one of those letters that I wrote with pen and feeling for the naked truth of all sorts of gadgets, ornaments or desire to impress, it was just me I scribbled a few words in black ink painted on paper. Because I can not do otherwise, because I am full to the white paper, because the pen is my symphony conducted by interior, because I write this letter never written, because I am the word that is stored in an envelope and check in a mailbox. But it so happens, that you if you were writing, if you were sent by the old mail, with postmark and stamp certified, to leave no doubt and at least have a little more security you'd get to your destination.
Your destiny! Arrive at your destination, only the postman ever knocked on my door with a response with an acknowledgment of what I had sent a paper for me to stay in the hands to caress your memory. With a "strong lady here and take the envelope has arrived."
Today I write another letter that I wrote, because suddenly, I felt alone in a battle that I did not know was lost from before the war (not to be afraid that they are wars of emotions and feelings not the cruel, cruel world we live in daily), or maybe he did know but was reluctant to admit it.
Today I write letter to and no return, because the horizon has made me more distant because today, it hurts me to not remember what you wrote.
of you always, I
.
Your destiny! Arrive at your destination, only the postman ever knocked on my door with a response with an acknowledgment of what I had sent a paper for me to stay in the hands to caress your memory. With a "strong lady here and take the envelope has arrived."
Today I write another letter that I wrote, because suddenly, I felt alone in a battle that I did not know was lost from before the war (not to be afraid that they are wars of emotions and feelings not the cruel, cruel world we live in daily), or maybe he did know but was reluctant to admit it.
Today I write letter to and no return, because the horizon has made me more distant because today, it hurts me to not remember what you wrote.
of you always, I
.
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