Letter D

I’m still thinking about you. A silent year is nearly passed, but I,unchanging , still recall your face. No more rivers of tears, fast steps through unknown faces, but only the terrible feeling that something is lost, and the resignation is lost with it; a condemnation sealed by yours “ok”, and after that a chasm of silence, a night without moon and stars.
Questions and questions only, they’re useless, they’re rusty. The concept is simple, but artificial, what comes up naturally is the perseverance to see a castle there, where few rocks can’t even be called “ruins”.
I’m thinking about you. About when you’ll search for me once again, a message, a stupid bip. As if you’re puzzling about how to do. Is there something left to say after “ok”? Another question. I’m playing with the coloured smoke, hurting myself, the cruel game of a child, a spiral shaped stair that go down into the abyss, every step a reproaching smile; can you see the bottom? Enough with questions.
Just one more thought.

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