by Gabriele Vitali
The sound this rain makes
recalls the flow of your tears
on your face, certainly not on mine,
whose source of such seems to have become shy
for too many years,
and for this you wish to teach me
that this rainfall saddens you,
makes you feel unfree,
and makes you yearn for a more limpid blue,
and I wish I could relate to this
but the color of this haze
reminds me of the dullness of the skin
of your hands, surely not mine,
that despite being torn by the wind, I believe they are fine,
always,
and again you want me to know
that this mist frightens you,
makes you want to go
anywhere you can possibly think of a nicer view,
and I’ d love to understand that
until these bare trees
somehow invoke your unclothed body,
never mine,
which has yet to be redesigned,
since always,
and even now you want me to understand
that you never liked autumn,
it makes your life seem unplanned,
devoid of spring greenery,
but even if I understood you
there is this blinding sun
matching the laugh on your face,
not on mine,
that you would like more often to smile,
more than usual,
and for one last time you explain to me
that you don’t live without the heat,
and that summertime makes you free,
I didn’t want to be mean
and now perhaps I see,
but let me show you, my dear,
the way that what you love and I cannot be compared,
and that what gets your mind dreamy
makes me feel uneasy,
but what you truly hate
can sometimes make me feel safe,
so I am more than just okay,
when the air is coloured grey
and you may compare this to a decay
but I deeply love these drizzly days.