Gleason 8 Cancer Survival Rate

I threw flowers

a cold spring night, my footsteps echo on the pavement while waiting for your arrival. Few cars on the empty streets, flowering trees give off a subtle scent of honey and sweetness, and a languor that shakes the senses that makes you want lips soft and timid looks in vain, bold gestures and words that affect the soul. I stop to smell the air, just felt a little movement in the dark. I smile. I smile and I turn to you. "You're here." You lower your head, lying on the ground petals carried by the wind. "You're here," I repeat. Now you appear sad, now I whisper softly, "No".