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If loving is a defect

then I am imperfect,

Unworthy.

Tear pieces from my heart

and lay them on the cold tray

of respectability.

If to love is inappropriate,

when the path deviates,

lose me.

Nothing is more dangerous

than a burning spark

when dead branches

are stacked around it.

But if loving is inevitable,

appropriate

deserved

if it is breath,

light

magnificence of the soul,

pathway,

discovery,

youth,

ransom,

mutation,

motive,

I love for all this,

but above all because in me

the stele of courage

it is not yet lost.

I stopped, rested the pen on the table, vibrant with emotion and surprise from my own words.

It was the first time I had stopped thoughts with ink.

It was time to turn off the stove and start waiting for Filippo to come home.

My mind wandered freely in dreams, imagining that Pietro came in through that door, with his smile, with his fresh love.

The phone rings and abruptly brings me back with my feet on the ground.