A Furtive Tear

A handful, some metal, friction. One more falling star in your deep palm, weak light at the end of your white cigarette, the signpost of an apprentice Prometheus. You stare, your irides glare at the negative pressure, and everything beats once against the pupils and once against the eyelids. The world huddles to get in, to get in on time before you blink.

Your lips don’t dare to stain the smile, your arm stretches upwards or embraces downwards – same thing. You try to see yourself in this picture so that you can remember somewhere that sometime, this place had come to you.

People pour out of your lachrymal glands; finite forces you wish were incalculable. At the time all this might have not been so important and loss might have been just a note on the list hanging against the fridge; an alternative product next to happiness. At the time nothing might have needed to be important. At the time, ecstasy might have seemed like a bad omen. It’s enough though – lest you end up forgiving them.

One handful, a little bit of skin, warmth. Only one horizon for your blind steering wheels, deep down to where the lips end. You interlock ten dim fingers and turn palms into resonators for the silence of the parallel horizons so that you can remember that this place once was for you.

It’s enough though – lest you end up forgiving me.

P.S. Un solo istante i palpiti del suo bel cor sentir..


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