They say love is kissing people’s hearts and play them like a radio, constantly. I want to do is just believe and contemplate how in the inner sea, sailing our fish. There steadily covers the wave wave — so the palm of your lies on my shoulders, not able to reassure and deceive, because the freedom of choice is impeccable. This evening whisper of leather and love, the white noise in the air splashing, gentle one. I miss you and how things lush Rimbaud constantly look at the water under the “Gloomy Sunday”