I had been denied of love
even when they assure to love me,
and now is me, who begs to be forgiven.

Love will always be
a foreign language for me.

I'm afraid I will never understand
the grammar and phonemes,
the complexity of the feeling.

Instead, I made myself fluent
in loneliness and melancholy.

I communicate with the moon and stars,
I taste the bittersweet of other lips,
and like the rain: I come and go.
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