Thursday, 3 May 2012

in hampstead heath

The smell of fresh peppermint.
I sit down looking for a refuge, wishing to savour the last words of this tale of blindness. The warm liquid soothes my soul, it melts the rime nestled on my cheeks and fingertips.
Winter has come.
I open my treasure, I leaf through its pages but my attention is soon diverted by the world around me. My mind is trapped. It is here that our love was born, in this enchanted park, it is here I thought, for the first time in my life, “he is the one”, while, lying on the grass we hugged each other for hours, kissed by the lukewarm sun of October. It is here I understood it was not the umpteenth mirage, while I was biting a slice of coconut cake , speaking of bears and weird wood creatures.

And here I am again, the same odour of fresh peppermint and you crowding my thoughts even from miles away, fighting with all my worries to be my main preoccupation, and managing it easily. It is a Thursday afternoon, it is pitch black, it is raining light over a London too superficial to suffer the absence of you. My heart is beating fast, the tea warms up my hand and the thought of you hits my heart like a hammer.

aceptad mi silencio: lo mejor de mi

il cuore una poltiglia. 

raggi x.

 tornare a prima del coltello,

a prima dell'amore.