I miss my life, the person I was. The free woman who used to hide in poetry, making those fools bad verses that were so mine.

I miss the feeling that forced me to write, which poisoned my fingers and inspired me to create. 

I miss the desire, that desire that pulverized my senses and made me die in life so many times.

I miss that strange thing. That feeling. I miss going and see the pats that were prison and freedom, and laughter and tears.

Where did she go? When did she disappear? What happenned to me?

I have looked everywhere, in that ray of light that succumbs to the dark, in the drawers of memories, which threaten to disappear. Among those who left not a trace.

I miss the butterflies. I miss counting the hours to hear his voice. I miss the long conversations that gradually became monosyllables.

I miss the eternity, what I thought it was eternal.

I miss my life. I miss me.