My voice, now filled with skeletons and ghosts, breaths with the asthma of an old sadness.
Sadness, cursed and profound, and in even deeper hideout that despite the evident, I just preserve the sensation but not the face, maybe the same last, red, and painful of Hemingway’s.
The same feeling is the one that prevents me from turning off the lights of this room and give a new kiss, honest and juvenile, or the boldness of accidentally pouring some sauce over a friendly skin and sip from it, or to look into a pair of new alien eyes, that just seconds ago threw their dice to Destiny.
3 plays in the same game and 58 weeks after, I am older but not happier. I have been living on palliatives of love. There are 10 inches of distance between your heart and mine, but 5000 miles of silence between my face and yours… Thus, they scream at me with the strength of their paroxytones, the EVPs of Love.