Sin un buen final

There's a special kind of calm in some stories - not the kind that comes with wisdom, but the kind that remains after all the storms. When there's no screaming left inside, just the faint sound of the waves: the habit of remembering and letting go simultaneously. Here, breath is taken not from pain, but from memories that are too familiar not to be felt. Each line is like a step thru a familiar city where everything is slightly different: the same light, the same streets, but nothing is yours anymore. His voice trembles as if he's apologizing to the very air. But not for love - for its remnants that still stubbornly live under the skin. And even tho there's nothing left in common except memories and unspoken phrases, that same "maybe it would be different" still echoes inside – like a quiet admission that any "almost" can also be a beautiful ending.