Letter for MRT

And again, I opened a page of yours from a social network and I was looking at your photo. As I already smile looking at you, you have no idea. But of the last times, unfortunately it was not smiling that I looked at, it was with discouragement, with nostalgia and hurt mixed. Why did you have to die? Why did you have to kill everything I felt? Make me die too. Make me pretend to be alive to everyone. Forcing me not to cry when I wanted to cry. I want to punch you, tell you that you are an idiot, an asshole, an asshole, a weak, a coward, never got past that. Never a joke of yours was funny, you never surprised me. Never. But I can't stop thinking about you, every day, every act of mine. And when I look for other people, I try to imagine you seeing me. And having hatred of me. Because I want you to feel hate. Because hate means something, and it's better than indifference. You who were everything, was already my hope, was my future imagined, today is nothing. It's just a photo on a social network. If I live well without you, why do I keep looking at you? Why do I always come back here? Why do I listen to songs that speak of sadness? Why? You're not worth it. But I do. I keep doing it. As a mourning ceremony, I follow suit. But it turns out you didn't really die, the way I'd rather die. You are alive, living your life, doing your things, happy, tranquil, without missing me, without looking at my photo on a fucking social network. Because I can't? Why couldn't you be somebody? I expected a lot from you? No. I didn't expect anything, I understood everything, I understood what nobody would understand. I respected it. I did as you wished. All. I deleted myself. I gave you my time. I came back. I cried, I apologized, I endured bullshit. I held it all. Raking from the ground, crumbs of your affection, crumbs of your love. In your explosive, calm way. One day loving me as if the earth would end after midnight. The other day, a stranger asking me to treat you like anyone else, please. You are my favorite character. The owner of all my texts, of all my stories. The owner of the curvy behind my back. And I have to say it now, just for a photo on a social network. Because you died in my life. You resigned, your position was president, you were an honorary board member, you had red carpet, and I would even dress up as a secretary if you liked. And you resigned, without notice or anything. Tell me now? How to live well? How to survive, without this point of anguish? I'm happy, man. I'm too happy. But I'm too unhappy when I think of you. When I think about what it could be, what it could have been. When I think that you left me alone, and never told me why. I know you can not. I don't even want you to. I don't want anymore. But I don't know what to do with this knot. It will pass, right? I know. Over time I won't look at your picture, nor suffer, nor think how unhappy everything that happened. I hope it hurts. Because the urge to resurrect you sometimes overwhelms me.