the language of tragedies

i. beloved

the first love of my life had
green eyes that pierced my soul,
and the softest dirty blonde hair I had ever felt.

he, whose name made me stumble (even if it belonged to many people, even if it belonged to someone else's lips).

i fell in love with a sharp and active mind,
with windows in his irises that let you see his soul
(sometimes as light as day, sometimes as dark as night),
with small brown spots on his cheeks and nose
(almost imperceptible, almost irrelevant ... not for me, however.)

i fell in love with a white,
shiny and big smile
and rosy cheeks,
and very soon he became
the symbol of my weakness.
he was my sleepless nights,
he was my writings
and he was what occupied
my solitary mind at three in the morning.

i fell in love with playful arguments
and immature insults
(who ever said that verbally abusing was a symbol of frustrated love anyways?)
that soon turned into a raw rivalry,
and then a warm friendship.

i fell in love with the way
he rushes like a wildfire
and burns everything
i worked so hard to build
since the last time he left me
in the ashes, only to come back
just to kick the remains
and set me on fire again.

i fell in love with someone
who ripped my heart out
and then asked why i was dying,
someone who had my blood
on his hands
and asked me why I blamed him.

but in spite of everything,
i still love him.
i  know i love him,
i know i care about him,
i know i know his darkness
(and I know he knows mine.)

even if it's risky,
i would dare to say that he also loves me
sometimes,
and that he,
sometimes,
cares about me as well.

even if the sweet boy i fell in love with
now only lives in my memory,
even if now we only share
old traces of distant memories,
even if our story is just
one more chapter in a book of the bitter
tragedies of unrequited love,
even then will remain the feeling
that made me feel so alive.
those drops of warm love
at the bottom of a frozen heart.
that strange breeze of summer
in a freezing winter
(what else can you expect from a cold heart, except a love frozen in an endless winter?)

i want him to come to me,
to find me.
to wake me up.
for still here i lay.
because he lives still
among the sharp pieces of my broken heart.
because I'm forgetting him,
but not time.
because for as long as
my memory does not fail me,
i will never go back in time.
i would never think of changing
the slightest thing.

part one,
the language of tragedies