(Almost) in ruins
There is a path where I hid stories with your name; they used to be forests filled with humidity and truth. Now, there are a thousand ruins in the vast wasteland of my memory, but there will always be some lights on, like the balcony of the house we shared in that strange place we migrated to one winter. I believe that of all the places where your memory survived, this is one of the few that has withstood all the storms, all the sorrows, all the rejections.
There is still that boy, deeply in love. There is still that girl who painted pictures with smiles, who photographed everything, who didn't want to miss a thing. I go back to that time and remember it with my eyes blindfolded, seeing only through my senses, lest my sight deceive me and I discover that version of us also failed, that the tiny apartment is occupied by new souls seeking each other with violence and will be forgotten without remedy.
It makes me wonder if you still exist in some beam of light lost in space. Imagine how beautiful it would be if there were atoms of our previous existence searching for each other, finding each other, dancing that waltz. The photograph where you silence my mouth with the tip of your finger is a loop between Auriga and Andromeda; I unbelievably believe that moment will never die, even though you and I have passed away.
I don't know where, but somewhere we will continue to live forever. I hope it's not just in my imagination. How torturous it is to know that only I suffer this desolation. I don't want you to be in my shipwreck. On this new island, I am perfectly alone, but a part of me wishes that the things I lived for you find you desolate somewhere. My sadness is not diminished by knowing that you are also sad. It's the ego that needs that victory. I want to think that I was significant to you, but when I see you after so many years, something in your gaze tells me that my memory was just that, something that happened to you.
But for me, it was everything, damn it, it truly was everything. The overflowing glass, the castles and the village where it was always Christmas, those first pieces of furniture we took years to pay for, the empty house but overflowing with both of us. Did all of that really reduce to ashes carried away by the wind? Did I imagine all of this? I don't even know who the forgetfulness bothers, whether it's me, who has gone through more movies than I can remember, or him, who lived the greatest love story in this city.