Tus Ojos Verdes

Love is like the last cigaret - it draws you in until you're dizzy and burns down to the filter. Everything about her is unconventional: faith without a church, prayers without an addressee, happiness mixed with pain, and a promise - until death, without pathos, simply as a fact. There's no room for rosy clichés in this feeling - only warm hands, anxious nights, and eyes the color of a thunderstorm, for the sake of which you stop believing in coincidences. Rough tenderness, quiet dependence, a little whiskey, and too much truth. You don't cure that - you just carry it under your skin, like a tattoo made in the dark.