very sensitive

He was so sensitive that it was between death and horror at the same time, we pictured arranged in his memory and mine, he couldn't stand all the nonsense I said, so obsessed with everything antique, everything wooden, everything burning like smoke.

I gave him a white bird, not a dove, but a white bird, as if it was seen in the form of angels in the form of a bird.
He did not like to stay at home for a long time and he loved the sky, he loved the sky as if it were a lonely homeland, a lonely homeland that did not like bodies and was not tempted by sex.
He stuttered a lot the longer he talked about love, about the voids of love, as if it was an unresolved issue.

I am hurt by his lack of speech, or his short eyesight which prevents him from seeing me while I am heading towards him, his cruelty was indifferent to what happened to me and his poor bird who died of thirst for the love of my virginity.
He was not praying for us, but he stopped praying for us.