I'm running out of words but not out of pain.
Or one thing results in the other?
I used to thank every fake love that happened in my life.
They always brought feelings with them.
Or maybe they didn't even had to have feelings
(fake love lacks real feelings),
but even without feelings, they'd bring inspiration for my written words.
Or maybe I was the one who had all the words inside of my heart,
and as every fake love broke it, little by little
(fake love doesn't break us at once),
it released every word I had left for love, being it real or fake.
And now I can't seem to write about love, being it real or fake.
Writing about writing about love is harder than you'd think.
Specially when you're trying to find out which of the loves you experienced were real, and which of them were fake.
I keep repeating the words I wrote inside of the parenthesis (so they wouldn't run away (counting this last one in (even though I remember a rule that said: you can't put parenthesis inside of a parenthesis, writing about love is complex enough without those other symbols made to put thoughts aside)))), trying to  figure out real love.

I heard once, that you put inside the parenthesis extra information, that don't really mess up with the main goal of your wording.

But right now, I feel like what's inside these parenthesis is messing up with my wording real bad.
I hear them echoing in my mind:

(fake love lacks real feelings)

(fake love doesn't break us at once)

(so they wouldn't run away)

(counting this last one in)

(even though I remember a rule that said: you can't put parenthesis inside of a parenthesis, writing about love is complex enough without those other symbols made to put thoughts aside)





'

One of my favorite men in the world is actually a boy.
Sometimes I feel like writing to him, but I never do.
Yesterday, as I found an old picture of an acquaintance's pet, Michael, a scarab, I asked him how his pet is doing. He said that unfortunately Michael died two months ago, but his daughter and son still live.
I only met Michael once, and I still remember his eyes. I took a picture of him. But never again mentioned him in any of the times I met his owner at the dorm or at the university. And if I'd never found that photo, I would've never asked about him.
It got me thinking about the last conversation I had with one of my favorite men, who's still a boy.
He couldn't meet me to say goodbye, even though I was leaving to the other side of the world, and it got me upset.
"I'm sorry, I'm a loser" - He said.
"You're not a loser, you're just losing me" - I replied.
No, I didn't mean to take my tone to a dramatic Mexican soap opera level.
And at that point, I couldn't really explain what I meant. I didn't know it myself.
But today, as I kept wondering if I preferred to never know if Michael was dead, even though I happily found out he had two kids whose eyes are just as sparkling as his own eyes, I think I can finally rationally explain how I felt.
I wanna know if one of my favorite men has become a man, but I'm so scared I'll lose my boy.
I wish I could ask him how his grandparents are doing.
And if he's already at his new job. But I wonder if I wanna know the answers.
I think I'll never meet Michael's owner again. Therefore, the chances of meeting Michael again were already few.
So if I had never asked about Michael, he would still be alive for me.
Maybe 40 years from now he would  still be alive.
I lost Michael.
In the moment I took that picture, I lost him.
Not knowing it was the very last time I would see him, not knowing that finding that picture one year later, would lead me to ask about him just to find out he was no longer alive, I lost him.
I may not be a loser, but I lost him.