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Diez

Es octubre y eso me mata. Tendría que empezar a dejar en cosas que pasan porque simplemente pasaron en un momento determinado, sin encontrar patrones, fechas o sucesos que me ubiquen en un tiempo determinado, en un pedazo de mi historia. Sin embargo, parece que el octubre vive en la inevitable fatalidad de los tiempos que se vuelven difíciles, y luego amanecen desmembrados para recoger las cenizas el resto del año… y esperar otra vez.

Es que esta noche, terminó de explotar todo. Podía esperar que el mundo cambiara de forma, que los animales se volvieran plantas y que a su vez lo mineral pudiera cobrar vida, pero no que me hablaras para decirme que me extrañas. Han sido momentos difíciles y me muero por un cálido abrazo, un profundo beso y un poco de tiempo para contarte de mi vida sin los juicios que parecen seguirme todos los días. También te extraño en lo más profundo de mí, o tal vez en lo más sensible.

Extraño el pelo largo, los días de risas, el helado de Coyoacán y los interminables fines de semana haciendo cualquier cosa con pretexto de quedarnos juntos, hasta leer era divertido cuando encontrábamos el momento; pero es difícil aceptar que todo eso es pasado, y que me va a costar trabajo volver nuevamente, que no somos los mismos y que no sé si quiero volver…

Cuesta trabajo escribirlo, pero no tengo más por hacer…


Porque octubre siempre es treméndamente difícil

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