You thought you were strong,
and look at you now,
lying on the floor,
yelling at the sky.

No one will come to help,
you kick them all out,
warned that you'd ****
if they dare to come back.

You laughed when they left,
now silence laughs at you,
and your body, like a shadow
in the empty room.

There's nobody to save you
nobody to help you out,
not even to pass you a rope,
a gun, a glass, or a knife.

You thought you were strong,
now you know your strenght,
lying on the floor,
waiting for - the end.

It was your name I fell for first.
An instant name crush when I saw it –
two names I’d never have considered putting together,
but how beautiful, how unexpected.

Of course I fell for you name first.
Names are so much easier to fall for:
all the possibility in Florence, its softness, its grandness,
all the temptation in the way Delilah slips off the tongue;
the potential for a story about a girl named Ilaria Winter.

-

I fell for your style next, then your hair,
then the way you introduced yourself with both names
and then the way you spoke in class.

I think I stared at you too often, and I’m sorry.
I didn’t think I was being obvious, and I hardly thought
you would notice (someone as boring as) me.

But you must have, and I’m sorry.
I’m sorry you talked to me for the first time at the station,
when the train was fourteen minutes late, the moon looked
strange in the sky and I was contemplating jumping onto the tracks.
I’m so sorry you spoke to me at the train station of all places.

Yes, train stations have so much potential for beginnings,
but it’s far more likely they’ll be about endings,
about the fleeting, the slipping, the moments of going separate ways,
the longing for home and the crying into books kind of moments.

-

(But thank you, thank you anyway, for talking to me and knowing my name
and complimenting my hair and my boots and my clothes.
I wish I could have told you I loved the way
the bow in your hair matched your heels but I couldn’t and I’m sorry)

-

How disappointing it is to open something and find nothing in it,
because that’s me and I’m so sorry.
Don’t judge a book by its cover, I guess, because I’ve had to be creative
with my front to conceal the dreary words of my pages.

(And maybe – most definitely – I’m reading too much into this anyway,
but I’m boring and nothing much happens in my boring life (because
I don’t let it and I’m sorry.))

-

But thank for trying (and I’m sorry, so sorry).

-

I just wish you wrote poetry because at least then I could attempt to compliment that.

(and maybe you do write poetry, but I guess I’ll never know, will I?)

(I’m sorry.)

Someone
has robbed me yesterday,
has stolen my dream
of living in a world
where nothing is fake.

And I can see him,
he is everywhere,
all over the papers,
on the Internet.

I recognize
his innocent face.

It wouldn't be bad
to not remember anything,
starting each day from the scratch,
believing that life has no end,
making a new choice every day
deciding whether to bite the apple or not.
It wouldn't be bad
entering the unknown  tomorrow
with hope and love in heart,
without black boxes of the past
where everything is written down
from A to Z,
from dust to Dust.

Stars know
that you are beautiful.
And they know
that my heart is in bloom.

Stars are happy to die
for our wish come true.

They know they won't die,
they will always live
in me and you.

There's a country where live
people who don't have their own place.
They travelled the world and never reached
their destination.

They were exiled, misplaced, not admitted
anywhere, drowned in their tiny boats,
shot by steel hearted guards.

There's a country, no one knows about,
like an island somewhere
in the middle of ocean,
yet never found.

Nothing is strange about this country,
except that it exists.

We all one day will arrive there,
it's the matter of time.

Three middle-aged men
had told a ******* the train to shut up.

She wasn't even loud,
they were much louder than her.

When she got off at the next stop,
she friendly waved at them.

She won,
she beautifully won
that old, ***** game,
played on the train
by the three middle-aged men.