How it hurts still write about you. And some nights, like the past, dream of you. And I refuse to go back to April's eyes for fear of losing again. With your pain is mine.
I know I have a pending, but I can not approve. I repeat a thousand times I have to put down on paper so much, so many memories. But I can not. I'm locked, hidden behind the old topics that I come not always verbalize, not to write what I would write about you. I have come to resign: I will never, and spend a hundred years. I have
a message from you in answering my phone the day 29. I was surprised you did not know anything about the 30, because we talked every day a couple of times at least. Until the day del Pilar did not know he died on the 30th and it breaks my heart when I think I congratulated you on October 5 for your birthday. Then 5 days wore dead, Ana and me in the dark.
I thought something had happened to your father and respected the silence. But Pilar's Day came and you had told me a few days ago, sitting on the couch in my house with my cat in her lap Jimena: "if you do not call the Day of Pilar is that I'm dead." I said in jest, laughing. And I, sitting at the computer and now I laugh while playing "The jewels in the jungle." And I talked about your father, whom I adore, and we laughed together talking about many things, that it should not write, because things are yours, Anita.
Pilar Day I had a hunch. And you were indeed dead.
I put the music you liked to hear. And I prayed. I prayed a lot. I spoke with you. I felt your presence or feel wanted. I took a orfidal
and slept at last.
dreamed that you came to say goodbye to me, made an angel of light. And I woke up much quieter. Vives
always me and you forever stay with me secrets. Anita.
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