Just Maybe Forse Ciao

The modern world should grant us more choice than just killing dreams, individuality and love through a bottled up relation or renouncing to a relation for the sake of romantic love, instead. The Girl-with-a-top-hat thought while coming down from the space-ship. - Gakddg %^%$^£ 1334? - said the purple alien, cause she read her mind. - Uh?  - The Girl-with-a-top-hat widened her eyes. - Gakddg %^%$^£ 1334???? - repeated the alien, activating the inter-planetary comprehension device. - Ah right...well no, from where I come from the choice seems to be somehow reduced to two stages only: either you end up in a relationship, which means talking everyday, mainly about nothing after a while, normalising love and taking away the magic by giving in to compromise and reality; or else, you decide to avoid relationship just for the opportunity to win love, magic love, limitless love, that romantic love which ignites the soul, every now and then, knowing that you can't have both....

Imagine there could be for real one of those loves that learn each other's languages. Imagine there could be for real, for you and me that kind of love you don't believe in that love than never fades away that love that always reinventes itself that love that drugs itself through sex and points of light over our shoulder. Imagine there was a way for you to get to believe in me for one day only as I know you want to. Imagine you can trust me and my heart more than yourself and your heart. Imagine, that you get to believe in love for one hour only. Imagine that you believed in love for just one hour. And me, next to you to show you how people don't always cheat or betray or walk away or get used to routine or destroy the magic or normalise the love they share. To show you love stays never still, always evolves always comes out to surface differently every single day and second. Imagine you and me and a neverending travelling a ...

You adore me. And yet it's not love. You hate me and it could be. Listen to the Frequency,  today, tomorrow, in a week time, in a month time. For all the times I chose to leave this time I will stay. And more, and longer and you and me and us. And our everywhere. You adore me, and I am great, you hate me and I am difficult. Listen to the Frequency,  today, tomorrow, in a week time, in a month time. The sounds, and the noises, the crunching, the creaking, the squeaking of a devil's frequency in our world. It never lets go, it never quits squeaking behind the doors of heart and mind, but it never stays tuned long enough for us to understand what it says. It was a while ago, and I adored you on a beach of stones. And it was a while ago again, and I hated you on a speeding car. And you shortsighted, as usual, unaware, listened to the devil's voice and thought it was calling you away. From me. Listen to the Frequency,  tod...

And then there is a time when she doesn't know what to think anymore. He moves in slow motion and she is rushing. Then he moves forward and she slows down. Timing is her worst enemy. She is never on time with love And she blames it on him, obviously, What else can she do? Cause he moves in slow motion inside and outside her and never stops. She looks outside at the lake And smiles back at a memory of an innocent Yet powerful Infatuation. Do you remember how was being halfway in love with him? When all you have of him now is a white coffee, And an Americano pronounced in two different ways, And conversations about unaware admissals of truth, Because he hides and you stopped playing a while ago. Cause he moves in slow motion inside and outside her and never stops. Slow motion, she dances a bit, In slow motion someone's steps look even more unbelievable. While she goes back to what she did not want to accept And she sees his eyes, Eyes she cannot ...

There you have, in the middle of nowhere, you and me...and our everywhere. I am building a bridge of words to shape trust, romance and a future that will never exist. A bridge of words million of words for him who cannot understand my language. A disappointed hope for a disguised feeling illegal, illicit, sick and obsessed. And I look at myself from outside, standing at the edge of this bridge, risking to fall in the abyss he is. And I stare at the other hand of the bridge of words, how many other right words will I need to reach out the other side where he is working, deaf to my prayers for a life made sweet one day by someone who can't be me. And the bridge tells stories about a love which dares not speak its name, too unsure, too unsafe to be released about a night of feverish sex to try and contact the primitive emotions we are made of, about a heart who shuts the belief out and a heart who welcomes that belief way too much. I...

There's room to grow in the living room. But he won't. He prefers playing with the pillows, instead. His hands wave around, too much too often, she places her feet underneath his legs, as she always does. She has prepared tea and biscuits, as she always does. And most of all, she looks at him truthfully, as she always does. The Man-on-the-Moon feels a bit uncomfortable. First time, first visit, probably he will be watched closely, as usual his soul might become transparent and she will stab him right through his chest. But he is made of a different kind of material, he is the one who does not fully jump, not because he's afraid of falling or breaking down, but because he prefers so. So, it doesn't matter if she looks too close. He did jump, when he was younger, and embraced life and mysteries. And then what, discovered that friendship, true friendship, reaches him even on the Moon. There is something wrong here, thinks the Man-on-the-Moon. This side of the world i...