A kid's death through your lungs.

‹‹Can I open the window?››

let the cold enter the room,

“You look a lot like a widow “

but I guess I spoke too soon.

      I had your lips in my eyes,

      the beautiful crack on your face:

      a sweet and sad smile

      and your teeth like the rain.

And then there your story

came out  from your chest.

‹‹Did I tell you about Tommy?››

let me listen to the rest.

      The first night of September,

      an old house in the North,

      your hair like an amber

      in the wind… or a ghost?

I remember the silence

and the smoke through your lungs,

how I waited impatient

while we waited for the sun.

      And I still see your fingers

      holding that cigarette,

      the trees outside, like singers,

      like a choir, a melody effect.

Then it came, my girl, your voice,

what I couldn’t refuse to listen,

you did not let me any choice,

any chance to keep my distance

      from your words and all your fears

      from the smell of every breath

      and every minute, days and years

      since that moment: Tommy’s death.

 

Now I recall that single glance

of when I told you ‹‹Please, continue.››

how the snow started to dance

in the air, where me and you

      softly slept and shared those secrets

      of love and life and hate and tensions,

      where your eyelids became the weakest

      and my thoughts a nervous attention.

‹‹He was young, young and kind.

The mountain killed him, the snow, the cold.

I will keep him in my mind

Like a light, a warmth of gold.››

      Breath in the smoke, let me listen.

      ‹‹Red of blood, the mother screamed,

      broken bones and an unforgiven

      piece of rock, a life unredeemed.››

All the tears you were keeping

behind your lashes, under your tongue,

all together, they were hoping

to be set free, to sing a new song.

      And I remember how I felt

      while I waited for you to cry,

      all the words I kept for myself

      in that never ending night.

You slowly whispered ‹‹I miss his skin››,

just when the snow disappeared

with all the fears you kept within,

and to illuminate the atmosphere

      you took the lighter in your left hand.

      Every movement seemed perfect

      like each single moment was planned:

      you took another cigarette.