Ne sento ancora la mancanza.
è come un filo di me che viene strappato dal centro del mio cuore.
una vena tirata via, come farebbe l'incubo.

Non credo di ricordare abbastanza
eppure quell'ala piumata
nera, che mi sfiora il viso
la sento ogni notte di nuovo.

Perdo il senso delle parole
immersa in un mondo a metà
le mie mani si muovono in fretta
per creare nuove strutture

Solo per non osservare
il buio, immenso, buco
lasciato al posto di quella alta cattedrale.

Solo per non pensare
che non avrò le stelle che ho contato fin ora.

Respiro a fondo l'anima del mondo
monossido del mio respiro
odore di tempo stagnante
sulla saliva che ho tra le labbra.

I versi scivolano
senza richiesta
E chiudo la mente
dietro a un disegno.

«   And I cry, to the alleyway
Confess all to the rain    »

Cerco di lasciare spazio al tempo, e di lasciare al tempo lo spazio di agire.

Credo di aver avuto cosa desideravo, ed ora non resta che tagliare.
Come in un film.
Tagliare.


Per quanto faccia finta di nulla, anche questa volta qualcosa ho sbagliato. Ed è giusto che nessun'altro ne paghi, a parole è molto giusto.

Avverto i miei passi muti, come ovattati dal terreno morbido sul quale cammino. Tra le mani le manciate di sabbia prese, da queste dune, scorrono verso terra alzando al mio passaggio la polvere gialla della memoria. Davanti agli occhi ho dei monti. Una catena di monti che disegnano un profilo umano. Di uomo che dorme.
So che alla prossima alba tutto cambierà, le montagne si muoveranno e il deserto porterà il mio cammino dritto a curvarsi, senza che me ne accorga, verso un'altra visione di meta. Un miraggio di arrivo.
Guardo quel profilo di roccia cambiare, e so che posso piangere o diventare roccia.

Ho provato a piangere, ed è tempo di essere roccia.


Non doveva finire così. Il vento mi scherza intorno confondendomi i pensieri.
Fantasmi seminati sulle scale, in casa.
Ricordi distorti, pezzi di puzzle diversi che si incastrano tra loro.

Respirerò la pressione bassa di questi giorni, così a fondo da farmi girare la testa.
Un terzo Aperol, un terzo prosecco, un terzo acqua tonica.

There are no mistakes in life.

She never said nothing; there was nothing she wrote.
She's gone with the man in the long black coat.

Edward.

It's a web of images that I'm trying to build. That's my race against time, before time will steal me even the only choice I have.

And in the end
He lulled my heart.
Every vibration of that voice was a step to reach a dream.
Rock myself to sleep and yet I was crying for the warm joy that he gave me. Hurt by the perfection that pierces my senses.

I'm gone with the man in the long black coat.

And so that's my gain. While this little fox is weeping let me explain you every second of life that I breathed. Let me count how many heart beat you made me miss.

First, clear eyes. High stare.
Every ray of light falls in those bright mirrors, get sucked and eaten by his look. He has stolen every color of the water, of the earth, every reflection of the world is stuck in his absorbed glance.
I've been trapped too
when I saw my amazed face looking at me
from the green and gray landscape of his charming eyes.


Than hands.
Thin. Pale. Nimble. Weightless.
Gentle as a mage gesture should be. Light as a sleeping butterfly.
His fingertips were conducting electricity right through my body. I know that you know.
I know that silence filled with the footsteps on the stairs. I know what I saw, and it was almost nothing.
I should know where I was, and it was almost sure.
I know where my mind was, and I can say it for sure, it was in your pocket with our hands.


And than again his voice.
The sun on my face, violating my sadness, and his kind answer to my request.
And summertime did came on me, whispering this old old tale through the cotton fields.
I spread my little wings and took the sky. Nothing could harm me.

"Why search for magic?", I thought.

He had enough magic to charm and catch a crowd of people that didn't even understood his language. He was the failure of Babele's Tower.
He made God envy us just by saying so.

The pilgrim that I met moved me to tears. His warm speech taught me to be proud because someone, there, is proud of me.
His tales and his myths, his novels and his fables, every little story brought my soul away from that tiny intimate kitchen to the doors of NeverWhere.

And every time my heart ceased to beat, I didn't feel pain at all.

And than I saw the Angel.
Something beautiful, someone lying on my pillow.
No words for what I realized. The dark mark on his back, the thin and never fragile structure of those arms, the line of the neck and the silent profile drawn by light. I saw him ready to open his white, wide, wings. And now you know: I laughed just to don't cry.


I sank my cold fingers in the depths of my mind, and I found peace. Soft as only a cloud should be.
I can still hear that song twisting something inside of me, I still think about tarots and their moons, I still feel his strength blowing away my doubts.

But I still have your face printed in my eyes.
I'm trying to win, this time.

Remember to dare, to be brave, to catch the day.
Squeeze your journey, drink its life.

And have no fear. I still think that you are blessed.



It ain't easy to swallow, it stick in he throat,
But I'm gone with the man in the long black coat.

---

And when the hour of his departure drew near--

"Ah," said the fox, "I shall cry."

"It is your own fault," said the little prince. "I never wished you any sort of harm; but you wanted me to tame you . . ."

"Yes, that is so," said the fox.

"But now you are going to cry!" said the little prince.

"Yes, that is so," said the fox.

"Then it has done you no good at all!"

"It has done me good," said the fox, "because of the color of the wheat fields."

Farewell.