You think I cannot see you.
That I do not understand the hurt you have given to me.
The time in which you made me burn.
That every time I see you my soul starts to cry.
It knows what you have done, but not all you have shown.
This is the person that watch my bridge burn and offered no water.
The person that saw the oil leak from my buried gardens and laugh at my soulful eyes.
You are everything that drives me, but also everything that makes me.
The story is not written buy the pen; it is written by the secrets in your eyes.
The person has no name but one, the one you call when there is nothing else.
This person is you, or as I like to tell everyone me.