folds

Then she didn't tore the spiteful message even realizing that dripped a hot and sour poison. Didn't tore the message, did not delete the cruel lines, not parted of any unwillingness or silence. No memory would be lost, even the most petty, indifferent, critical and unnecessarily mean. Because we are made ​​of shadows, and in the folds of folds of the shadows we walk aimlessly. there is no one place to arrive but oblivion, then we walk alone. Where would take us if we choose the kind words only, gestures of appreciation, affection and promises of love? These are rare, as the sincere compliments declined, the gentle refusals which slowly hurts, the long kiss in no hurry to arrive. Rare are the friends who accept us, the ones who return, rare the ones who living. Everything becomes rare when we look back and we see the road more coursed than what we have ahead. What we still could wait? When all loves are gone, we'll still hear promisses? So she folded with lover's care the rough rejection, and save it close to the heart. For the darkest hours.