MiMola

I read again the few texts I keep on my phone, like reliques; I stashed them during the years, sending them from phone to phone. Every now and then I delete some of them, even though I save most of them. The good ones, the ones about love, the ones from friends, the ones about or from high school crushes; the bad ones, the ones about fights, the ones about shouted “fuck you!”s, the ones about breakups; I read them again and smile. I smile because I think about those less complicated times, about the palpitations I got from just a text, when the world still didn't seem so bad. And in the middle of this, I find your texts, which