Mia Cruda Sorte

I never called your subject glib.

The woods transform, the streets. Their apartment is beautiful, so big. She gives away the wine, the cheeses, the growing scribble inside her too fragile. The screen moves, it is  a sort of punishment he says and I know he is right. It is a sort of punishment. They are happy.

It's the same bar, we vow not to get kicked out this time. His new girl is all curls and young smiles; I adore her, I adore his face in her presence. Voices call from the edge of the island; I have had too much to drink, distance is incalculable. Later, the apartment swims, the voices speak clearer, it is too late, I falter. Packages inside the door. It is so green. You should be here.

(The world has nothing, on people who refuse its reality.)