mancare

It’s an ache that is impossible to satiate. It’s a longing that embodies me, that I cannot escape. It seeps into each pore of my skin, it gloves me. I slide into your world without an escape. How do I amend this gaping hole of salty water, these countless kilometers, the visions I have in your kitchen? I cannot be healed here.

I surround myself with pictures, maps, I look at you all the time. And I think of you constantly. Not just you, the entirety. I wake, disoriented. There is no aroma of tomatoes boiling, swimming in a bath of the purest extra virgin olive oil. There is no sun, and you are not next to me in bed. My body aches.

Dici: Non piangere. Che c'è?
Dico: Non lo so. Ti posso vedere. Vedo tutta la casa e tutte le cose dentro. How we share the colperta on our bed -- our sofa bed. How I like to wrap it around me, like a mummy, my feet tucked in all warm. But this isn't how you do this, which causes a problem. We're close in this little bed and if I tuck my feet in, yours fall out. How if you don't place your arm just right, I get a crick in my neck. And all of this matters now because why?
Because I see all the house, I see me there, and I am here eating a bowl of berries. And you are there eating primo: spaghetti con pomodori. Secondo: forse carne, forse pesce. Poi, formaggio. E poi: una sigaretta.

E cosí: abitudine.