I worry too much.
I've always worried too much.
That's why sleeping until two in the afternoon has always agreed with me.
I don't need to know the reasons why half the day is a waste.
I just need the night.
You were always the black rose in my night, shaded by perfection and my longing desire, which sometimes ended in behind the bushes upheaval.
It lead back to the drinking.
And the smoking.
If my brain was in the right state I wouldn't have ever done it, but no, it's in my nature to worry too much and damned if I didn't take her hand and jump off the roof anyway.
We were young.
Life was too fragile.
So she took my hand, instead of me taking hers.
And when we jumped she gave me a strange, funny look, that made me wonder if stars were exploding in her eyes and then being reborn.
I tried to forget, afterwards.
But there she was, her hands wrapped around mine.
There she was, a similiar sleepy smile on her face.
And so, without the smoke and drink,
I kissed her, so I wouldn't pollute her taste.
And she gave me that strange, funny look and said, "You have never been so real."
I stopped worrying.
And I started waking up early so I could be the first to witness the birth of stars in her eyes.