Different Hairstyles On My Head

I liked those days. We were both too busy with too many people around, to become the one the center of the other. Or to pretend that it could happen. Simply, we did not want that to happen. I was your background, the canvas on which to draw your fantasies of love that did not exist, and you were mine, my canvas to paint on the only company that would listen to me. Her hair blacks, were another you, you were provocative, attractive, beautiful, and I loved that people see you as well. Were you in some way in between the certainty that people would love you for your appearance, and the depth that I knew you had. You were perfect. The one who could hear, with whom I could speak, the only one who listened so willingly, I was trying to help more or less actively. You were not the center, so there was no need to resolve problems between us, because the problems were elsewhere. There was distance between us that extra edge, which allowed us to not clash. A small air gap between you and me, which limited the blows and wounds, and let himself be used as cover for injuries worse, because even we could lock ourselves in the indifference of "I do not need her," and so we survived two long years.
Then the tragedy. Before the mine, and it was almost a fortune. You've looked after, you were with me, I've caressed, rocked like no other mother would have been able to do. It was not a tragedy, to tell the truth. It was not. Because you were there to compensate for the lack of love just defeated, so that I was disappointed. Were you there, another form of love, not at all similar, and that it was the only one to survive inside me. Were you there. I also need solitude, not always able to be present, but somehow I did not need.
The thin line of air remained, and only later I discovered that he was this thin line of air.
He should have stayed. Should not have allowed that I could flatter myself that tu fossi 'mia'. Sei diventata parte della mia vita, e questa volta seriamente. Se prima eri la tela, ora eri il soggetto stesso, e tutti i colori che si porta con sè un disegno. Non c'era nessuno nella mia vita, e tu, che ti sei tinta i capelli di rosso , non avevi nessuno che potesse distrarti da me. Così abbiamo sperimentato cosa significasse diventare le protagoniste della reciproca esistenza. E i problemi. I problemi ora non erano più altrove. Sono qui davanti a noi. Non li posso battere. Non posso vincerli.
Tu non ci sei più. Com'è giusto, tu hai la tua tragedia da vivere, ora. E ci sei solo tu. Anche se mi vuoi bene. Anche se ti voglio bene. Io sono da sola. Tu sei da sola. Parliamo, and I feel nothing of what you say.
I knew I wanted out of our bubble, is an unbearable silence that we have built for themselves. Even I can not stand more, I hate breathing the air of one who has too much need of himself, because he looks like me, and maybe get beyond that yet I ask myself.
I miss you. I miss that period of crap and laughter, for reasons of depressions silly, I miss you, very much, your wishes, your smiles. There are now just a pile of red hair, too much depression, self harm, mine and your ego too little space for the other. We are no longer us,
Gaia. The canvas
pouring colors, the design is distorted. I hate your hair. I miss you terribly.
I could see you.
Claudia.