This is the story about a boy
A child and his red balloon
His only friend, his hope
I saw him every morning
I had a black smoking coffee in my hand
Writing my sorrows, I saw his
Just running after his red balloon
I started wondering what the balloon meant to him
Was it my projection? My feeling of empty childhood?
Was I being attracted by the contrast between his skin and the red?
No, it was his dreams, I imagined his inner thoughts
His smile, his bright brown eyes showed devotion
He loved his red friend so much
A feeling of uncontrollable fear starting thriving inside me
Too late…
I still remember that morning
Eight sharp
Same boy, same balloon, on a windy day
His face turned pale, he rushed but it was not enough
He was gone, I dropped my coffee on my lap
Could not even feel the heat
Everything was so cold
The boy stared at me for the first time
We knew at that precise moment we share a silent grief
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