The last night

In the night it's easier to write, to talk, to make mistakes.
In the night it's easy to fall in love and to be deceived, or to deceive.
The night is the place where I want to be.
I am feeling the black of the night on me it's a shelter, I like to touch it and to be in there like in a shell.
Sometimes lonely doesn't mean alone. It's a status of mind you create for yourself to escape from something, someone, nothing.
The words I can't say just fall down my throat and fill my lungs with diamonds.
I like that sensation of struggle.
The only colours of my nights is crimson, a crimson dust covering all the things around me, my soul and my heart.
I collected all the words and made a fire.
They are gone with their ashes.
I see them flying and I wave with my hand like they would just be leaving on vacation.
But they won't come back.
Crimson dust covers my body too and it puts me to sleep.
A deep sleep without dreams or joy or sorrow.
Only silence.