L'Atlantico.

There was a Bukowski book on the floor. I had read her some of it before, like I was fucking Ginsberg or something. I even had thick glasses like his. God, were we obnoxious. We wanted to dance. It was one of those times where you just have to do something, for no reason in particular but the thing itself. Dancing for dancing’s sake. There was no way to play some music in that room, so it was up to our imagination. Just imagine us happily pirouetting across the floor with a 30s French song as the background, two bodies tangoing on a dusty Spanish field in July, skins sparkling with sweat and tiny specks of dust adhering to bare limbs, a crowd chanting and clapping to the rhythm of the music until sundown, when a fire would be lit on the nearby beach and we would all indulge in a long-awaited, disgusting kiss, heaps of tongues shriveling and bodies contorting, the flames barely lighting the shame in the color of our cheeks. There was no stopping us – as soon as we entered that room, the world around it became useless, dull and tired. It was all revolving around us, as if Ptolemy had always been right and we were the center of it all. I could feel time stopping while my fingertips passed through her hair, as dark as the linens we were lying on. Her breasts – god, her breasts. All of a sudden, I was seeing it all. I was seeing everything, every single color that ever graced the sight of a human being. Every shape, number and letter in each and every language ever spoken or even thought. I was hearing with the ears of the blind. An outburst of nothingness, everything coming down to its bare essentials, just an infinite series of zeros and ones spiraling into a blank screen of flesh and lips and whispers as beautiful and terrifying as thunderstorms.

Why should I? Is it worth the effort?

It feels like a rising tide. Yes, your words are a - magnificent - rising of the tide. The moons moves randomly and takes you with her every time oxygen spews from your mouth. O moon, your craters which are the shape of our bodies! The last time I remember watching you was when my back was wet with dew and your legs were crossing right in front of me, running away from me like unseen mountain ranges - we had kissed moments before, and every little thing in the whole universe was beautiful. The river exhaling pollution, the concrete making up the only wall protecting our feeble bodies from the power of the river, the seagulls soaring and drowning in the perfect shape of a triangle, its edges running wild through the current, the fish cursing us land-ridden bodies of God.

Abbiamo deciso che era un’amicizia causata solo da troppi bicchieri, ma oggi è come se non avessi mai smesso; con la pancia pesante, la gola che brucia e risvegli troppo lunghi e troppo lenti. Il mattino non trovavo più nulla di mio ma avevo trovato te, il mattino la testa girava e iniziava l’attesa che non è mai finita per noi che non siamo mai cominciati.

(Qualche tempo fa.)

Abbiamo bisogno di sorrisi, e di riempire i posti in cui viviamo, che le pareti bianche sono infinite, infiniti i dipinti che ci piacciono.

Di te ricordo solo gambe incrociate e verde, e la sera che ti sono venuto a trovare a far volare le ore, a farmi dire non te ne andare. La prossima volta gireremo a sinistra all’incrocio, nella prossima vita, e sarà tutto nostro, sarà tutto perfetto. Non ti scriverò mai nulla, non avremo paura, e alla fine tutto avrà senso. Di te ricordo solo gambe incrociate e verde, e una domenica sera. Dammi solo domeniche (e i tuoi occhi grandi).