a matter of missing: the smell of cigarettes and alcohol on his skin, warm hugs that seem to make everything okay (even if in reality the world is ******, for that split second, you’re there and nothing else matters), the visits that seem to happen when you’re just about to go to sleep on a bad day, having to watch the sunrise, the sunset, the sky (anything that has to do with the sun makes you smile). you know that the most perfect moment is when he holds your hand and you’re drunk on red wine, and the world slips away because he is, and you swear you could die at that moment, happy.

a matter of not forgetting. everything will remind you of him: street children, smells on your street, coffee and pasta (something you will never do again), mentholated cigarettes, the lines about him you attempt to write, the lines that you don’t write, neruda (the only book that stays untouched on your bookshelf. you try to read it, but all you can really hear is his voice reading you “body of a woman”, from the night you didn’t sleep because the air in your dorm room was thick with something you’ve never really felt in that room, air used to be so stale. but he was there, and you watched him sleep thinking he’s beautiful that way, and you smile.

21.09.09