The poet loves to write about her muse . Every verse that she writes fits with the words he said to her. The artist loves to draw his muse  in silence. In the silence that they both love to have, one time or another. The journalist makes comments about him in every interview, As if she was talking with him in that moment. The architect loves to construct buildings for her. He spends day and night trying to search for something similar to her beauty but he knows there isn’t an

You. Me. The knife in your hand. My endless crying. Your face saying I have to do it. I don’t understand. How could you do this? Was it a hoax all this time? I beg you, but you don’t listen nor care. Then, I hear the knife in my body. You held me like it was the first time. You cry. I screamed in a silent way. You left me there lying down. The last thing I heard was you saying sorry but it was too late—you had my blood in your hands. The people said that after you killed me,

Maybe was the last time? If loving you was easy, why does it hurt me? I watch you leave all the time, but this time it hurts. It’s like I...

Watching that window from my bed. The night there, it’s so beautiful. I love this room. I wake up. I walk down the stairs. It’s 7:00 am....