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I then wrote another long road of words, to reach you. But you ran away again, to another page.
Like a story written in an old diary, you are. I open it to meet you, read to talk and close to miss you again.
I am too old to be someone else's. I am still yours, at least in your absence, at least in my wait.
We once shared our secrets so badly that we now look somewhere else instead of sharing a smile while crossing each other on a random street.
Years have gone along and I still stand before you like the sad leftovers of a storm.
You pretend to not know me, I do the same, as if it is the best promise we made in our life.
Do not console me for the absence I will have, after you leave. I know you will be nowhere close, when I will complain to it.
Whenever you get busy with others after telling me to wait, I wait for the time that could remind you that I am still waiting.