Pecadillos youth. Everyone has their own. Here's another of mine: one of several stories I wrote when I was sixteen or seventeen songs that inspired me were suggestive. In this case involves an issue of Neil Diamond, You do not bring me flowers . In it, a couple reproach all the things you already do, consumed a passion for the routine. In my story, a couple reviews those memories forever before leaving home they created together. It's a terribly ornate prose, of exaggerated melancholy but what can we do? Is it about sixteen, right?
used to be wonderful. "Forever" was the most significant words in the world for them. So.
Today the house is dark, just a few glimpses of the February sun seep between the cells of the shade of the room. He moves between tables, chairs, doors and shelves, confused in the shadows, with the same precision as a blind man in his home. Too much time living with they, too old to get them. But are not his, or her, belong to that house, which is in the hands of the past, a past evocative and sweet, in which they learned to laugh and mourn. A past that has become bitterness on his lips. The wind sweeps their hearts as destination deciduous falls on the wet pavement.
"I'm not talking the way home," he says. She listens to you and close your eyes. "We were saying we do not love you," he responds.
The bed is cold. Grande. Huge. She recently lost on those sheets. Shortness of breath and needs to be built in the middle of the night. Yet it is the same bed then, in that was not enough space to unleash the expression of her love, the love they received, which was equal to the love you gave.
pad on the pillow, the pillow under the bear. Photography, small jewelry, watch this French antiques market. She wipes a drop of nostalgia that burns my cheek. And look at the picture hanging over the head. Painting that cost them so much ... But, how much they wanted! And yet it was one more experience, but one of the wonders of this adventure that was supposed to love each day. As travel to Paris and New York as weekend ghosts, like the guitar signed by their most admired artists: Neil Diamond, Bob Dylan, Paul Simon ... There is, supported by the dandy, who remains silent in the mirror so many kisses, so touching, so many words, so many silences. Its strings, no doubt, would not issue more than sad sounds.
"I do not sing love songs," she says.
He enters the bedroom, but not responding. And then she looks, but does not say anything. Lower your eyes and go to his side, toward the lobby. He can not resist the attraction of the bed. One admires the change in their attitude. In recent times, as he left her, did nothing but kiss her cheek, turn on your pillow and turn off the light. Not sure who to hurt more than that. Of course, now that memory haunts him, especially when compared to those days of passion and fantasy, between the silence of the forbidden and the expression of the unspeakable. So I never turned off the light. In fact, they needed even on. Cross
the house, retracing a lifetime, cracking what seemed unbreakable, and come to the entrance. The clarity that filters through the shelves of the kitchen blind cut into several lines on her face. For the first time in a long time their eyes connect, and converse, and console. But then they turn back, because they understand that it can only hurt.
"Did you think I could learn to say goodbye?" I question the approach.
She closes her eyes and tries to stop the rotation of the Earth, the expansion of the universe, and again when he could not wait to love when hated to leave. He walks over and gently lifted her chin until she returns to look into his eyes. And the eyes are broken, question is begging. But the two already known all the answers, all the alternatives.
"I did not tell me you needed me," she explains.
becomes then to the front door and opens it. You are about to cross, but stops at the threshold. And tour. And shorten the two steps separate you from him to give him a last kiss, he feels like the gentle breeze of any of those walks on the beach at sunset.
And she is gone. And they both think. For he is now the point of no return, the end of the story. And nobody wants that to happen. But both are aware of reality.
"I do not give flowers," she says, breaking into tears, before closing the door behind him.
I do not give flowers
used to be wonderful. "Forever" was the most significant words in the world for them. So.
Today the house is dark, just a few glimpses of the February sun seep between the cells of the shade of the room. He moves between tables, chairs, doors and shelves, confused in the shadows, with the same precision as a blind man in his home. Too much time living with they, too old to get them. But are not his, or her, belong to that house, which is in the hands of the past, a past evocative and sweet, in which they learned to laugh and mourn. A past that has become bitterness on his lips. The wind sweeps their hearts as destination deciduous falls on the wet pavement.
"I'm not talking the way home," he says. She listens to you and close your eyes. "We were saying we do not love you," he responds.
The bed is cold. Grande. Huge. She recently lost on those sheets. Shortness of breath and needs to be built in the middle of the night. Yet it is the same bed then, in that was not enough space to unleash the expression of her love, the love they received, which was equal to the love you gave.
pad on the pillow, the pillow under the bear. Photography, small jewelry, watch this French antiques market. She wipes a drop of nostalgia that burns my cheek. And look at the picture hanging over the head. Painting that cost them so much ... But, how much they wanted! And yet it was one more experience, but one of the wonders of this adventure that was supposed to love each day. As travel to Paris and New York as weekend ghosts, like the guitar signed by their most admired artists: Neil Diamond, Bob Dylan, Paul Simon ... There is, supported by the dandy, who remains silent in the mirror so many kisses, so touching, so many words, so many silences. Its strings, no doubt, would not issue more than sad sounds.
"I do not sing love songs," she says.
He enters the bedroom, but not responding. And then she looks, but does not say anything. Lower your eyes and go to his side, toward the lobby. He can not resist the attraction of the bed. One admires the change in their attitude. In recent times, as he left her, did nothing but kiss her cheek, turn on your pillow and turn off the light. Not sure who to hurt more than that. Of course, now that memory haunts him, especially when compared to those days of passion and fantasy, between the silence of the forbidden and the expression of the unspeakable. So I never turned off the light. In fact, they needed even on. Cross
the house, retracing a lifetime, cracking what seemed unbreakable, and come to the entrance. The clarity that filters through the shelves of the kitchen blind cut into several lines on her face. For the first time in a long time their eyes connect, and converse, and console. But then they turn back, because they understand that it can only hurt.
"Did you think I could learn to say goodbye?" I question the approach.
She closes her eyes and tries to stop the rotation of the Earth, the expansion of the universe, and again when he could not wait to love when hated to leave. He walks over and gently lifted her chin until she returns to look into his eyes. And the eyes are broken, question is begging. But the two already known all the answers, all the alternatives.
"I did not tell me you needed me," she explains.
becomes then to the front door and opens it. You are about to cross, but stops at the threshold. And tour. And shorten the two steps separate you from him to give him a last kiss, he feels like the gentle breeze of any of those walks on the beach at sunset.
And she is gone. And they both think. For he is now the point of no return, the end of the story. And nobody wants that to happen. But both are aware of reality.
"I do not give flowers," she says, breaking into tears, before closing the door behind him.
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