I WAS AT THE WINDOW

I often stay staring at the sky while I’m in the car or just when I’m walking around. I look at the sky because from there my mind opens and makes me reach the sea of ​​stars on the expanse of salty, clear water, full of star reflections. It reminds me of winter evenings, when with very few degrees I was short-sleeved on the beach taking pictures. As I looked at the immensity of the sky, I imagined people who, like me, looked at nothing like a dreamer. I imagined people looking at the stars immersed in black to return home or as they looked out on the balcony or the bedroom window with a cigarette between their lips or a steaming cup, and in taking their time to think, they lost themselves looking at the sky with eyes and heart full of anger or sadness, letting oneself be engulfed in the bubble leaving the world outside, and who knows, maybe we are all astronauts but with the fear of leaving the earth and entering the darkness of the universe among the planets and the stars.
In my head there is an empty room for you, a glass of wine and a book of poems that I would have liked you to read, a comfortable sofa and a window on the roof to observe the shapes of the clouds, to watch yourself while you are busy looking for the constellations. From time to time I go back to that room, to bring fresh flowers and open that window, to breathe a little. I sit on the sofa with my knees to my chest and read that book, slowly sipping the wine, you know I like to savor things, but then I get up and lock that door, at least three turns, to think about it before opening it. Your place remains and will always remain, but I won’t let you in anymore. I will no longer give you the keys if you fill a seat only to then leave, leave a groove on the sofa and the goblet only half full. In my heart there is a room, certainly small and closed, there is not a window or a book. But there are blank sheets to write on, to fill with complicated ideas, that room is certainly more challenging, everything you write head, the page cannot go blank, you cannot leave without this room undergoing changes, everything will not return in perfect order as before, so I rarely let anyone in. A breath of wind will not take away your perfume, it will not go away, just as your memory will not and maybe neither will you. I got you stuck between these lines and a veil of nostalgia, if you enter the life of a writer it is inevitable to stay on a sheet.

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