mercoledì 5 agosto 2015
I knew that it was ending. This time blessed by the unberarable heat that made her very attractive anyway. The dawn of our first meeting so long ago, the days have less hours when you fill them with beating of your heart for the emotion of having her next to you. When it's afternoon you really hope that time will stop, but you have the adrenaline that rushes the moments and you know there is the night when anything that didn't happen might happen. You don't want to look the hands of the clock, because it will seems to real, and you want to pretend that there is no tomorrow. That today is doomsday: endless and with her. It's late night, and even with the curtains closed you feel that the night is coming and reaching every house, yours as well. I don't want to choose the time when everything will end. You come close to me, anything can happen. Don't look at it, not the wrist. Too late. I hear the sound of the alarm clock set. We are already on different planets. Tomorrow, on the same reality. But for tonight, let me just stay here.
I could stay here and tell you that the wind was blowing through her hair while we were on the bike. A classic romantic cliché. Or that one of her eyelashes was on her cheeck and I removed it because she couldn't find it even with my guidance. I could tell you that we looked at the stars together and walker so close to nullify any concept of distance. I could say these things, and maybe they did happen. But the moment, the moment I understood everything, was when I brought her the paracetamol while she was sick at home, with her messed hair, a pyjamas so unaesthetic that you would hide from non-relatives, and I kissed her sweat forehead while she was hiding under the duvet for the shame and to play but when I told her I was leaving to let her rest she took my hand and fell asleep without letting me go because even if she was dreaming of being recovered, with the wind through her hair, the eyelash on the cheeck and under the stars, she wanted to be with me.
domenica 2 agosto 2015
They say that love at 14 years are immature, that you forget it after a football match. When you are 16 you don't joke about it, with your stomachache and fasting that makes people worry about you, while your brain leaves the football for other rounded things. When you are 18, there you are, holding a rose in your hand that you throw away when she passes next to you. When you are 20 you are self-confidend because it's a round figure and you can't be wrong and she understands and only sees you as a friend and then you spend that figure at the bar. When you are 24, and save some money, you do some crazy things and she is a bit scared but maybe happy. When you are 25 you have nothing to lose, except for the reason, and you throw yourself to her just to get that "no" but then you say you were kidding. When you are 27, despite all, you are immature, you fast, have a rose in your hand, self-confident and ready to do crazy things but you won't take a no as an answer. Maybe, you grew up a bit in this endless love carousel.
sabato 1 agosto 2015
Adjoining rooms, open doors.We couldn't see each other, but we communicated talking loudly. If one laughed, the other one asked why. And then we laughed together. We were classmates. We used to write messages almost simultaneously: "Break?". The breaks in the yard were moments where we used to talk about us, about everything and nothing, to go to this or that pub. And so I knew you, and you were like a brother. When the end of the course was approaching, our room were frontal and we could see each other. No more messages, but we lifted up our head from the desk and, with the corner of our eyes, laughing "Break?". The breaks, now under the snow, were sorrowful. The talks were about plans in other cities. I have the temptation every now and then, when I am at work, to write you, my friend, or to look for you at the next next to mine. And a sad smile possesses my face now that, when I go out, I don't find you leaning against the wall and waiting for me.
Once we got to the beach, I got undressed quickly, because I didn't have a body to show in slow-motion. U had the swimming suit that had the same colour as mine. The scars under your belly botton and on your legs made me wonder about your age, where I thought you where a pro in hair removal. But you didn't care about it, and you were the most beautiful among the other girls. At a certain point you simply asked me to put the sun cream on your back. The sun was very hot and you were so pale, like me. To be less embarrassed, I asked you to tell me something about you while I was trying to cover most of your skin. To not make you upset, and because I liked to carress you. You told me many things and I, with method and precision, was putting the cream like a painter. At the end of the day you didn't get tanned, because 200ml of cream worked like a shield, while I found myself with an empty bottle, the skin and the brain melted and the heart full of you.
domenica 26 luglio 2015
You will end up loving someone who doesn't love you. Talking to someone who doesn't listen to you, who cannot forestall your thoughts or surprise you, or doesn't even make the effort to pretend to know what's in your mind and be surprised. He wouldn't because he doesn't care to make you smile. You will end up this way, waiting for him at home while he left work hours ago without warning you. You will not end it because you are not capable of it and you know you could have had something better. You will end up convincing your friend that is fine. And you will end up convincing yourself as well. You will end up leaving your dreams in your drawer after giving him the keys that he will look with no interest. You will end up living a life you didn't want. You will end up loving a man who never loved you. And I will end up thinking that you deserved all of these. But who am I to say so? One that loved someone who didn't love back. And that someone, in my case, is you.
sabato 25 luglio 2015
Platform 24, should you or should I pay? We go to the ticket machine and then you insert your card. Don't pay for me, you say. Honestly I am broke, I think, without saying and pretending I would have paid. Platform 24, we wait for the train. Is this train direct, you ask me. No stops, but if you want we can stop here. You smile. Is the ticket ok? The ticket inspector looks at me, maybe he understood but he told me it's valid. Maybe he knows it's time to leave, to let you go. We are now on the train. The speed let us look outside without paying too much attention to the details or to the imperfections, it let us have an overview and my overview about it is that it's going to fast without stops. You sigh. We left platform 24 long time ago, now we are arrived. You are on the plane, no stops for you that can let memories slip away while saying goodbye to me. My way-back-home train, instead, has many stops that make me think of you, the person that peeked out my platform 24. Without stops.