Talking to her was like smelling new books, sometimes I found it difficult to follow her step, she never stopped talking and I loved to listen to her. I tried to take my hand in walking, that woman was very independent, I enjoyed her stubbornness, she hated that I accepted what she told me without refuting. She did not care if I told her how beautiful she looked, she did not dress for me if not for her, it was excess, an open wound, I lost my head for her, although she did not need me, she was my toxic love and I was nothing to she. She is fine maybe fucking the life of another and I ... Living with memories