There will be days, when I’ll wait for you, here at the door, hurting myself, and they’ll see me cry.

What will ever be?

There’s nothing to see here, it’s not strange to love. Even at this age, I still have tears to give.

Meanwhile, time passes, and you won’t be here, to drink our good wine, in front of which we used to talk.

If I had a year, or even one more day, I wouldn’t have wasted time, I would have stolen every moment.