When the feelings become so real, the soul also takes a physical form, and you can feel it twist, tear and rip; you hear it cries and desiring to disappear. You remain speechless in front of the enormity of the world, in front of the thought about how far away you are, how far away you will be, and how long this could be your life. You can not even think that soon you will be there, you can not even appreciate the idea of the kisses, the hugs, the other kisses and the other hugs, and despite Spotify shouts that there will be more and more hugs again, what you can see is just the moment when you will say farewell.
Because it will be easier, tremendously, clearly, obviously easier. Saying farewell, filling the time to the airport with the tears, telling yourself that you will die of nostalgia and then, halfway home, understand that this is not the first time you're here, this is not the first time you thought you would die, but also that you will survive.
It will be terrible to say farewell, looking at those eyes that implore you while they set you free, vainly promising that one day we will meet again, that there will be a time to travel again, this time together, with his head resting on my shoulder, with my hand in the his hand, and my city, or his city or some new country in the eyes.
It will be terrible to say farewell and look at that smile, one of those smiles that arise from that dull pain, sometimes huge and sometimes very thin, but always difficult to explain, and to think that there will be not another time when that smile will shead tears from your eyes, there will be not another time when you will desire to kiss those lips all night long, and you will wish to make love to be, once again, only one thing, me and him.
And I do not know whether to say if it is more terrible, or dangerous, or painful to think the opposite. To think that this may not be the last time. To think that there will be other arrivals and departures, there will be endless hugs when we finally meet again, and sweet kisses when in the sadness of a goodbye, we will hide the promise of a new meeting.
Can a soul endure from twisting and tearing and ripping, and yet accepting this destiny in the name of a dreamed, dreamable, and very impredictable future? It is worthwhile getting up every morning thinking how far he is, how long will it be, how far it will be necessary to go even just to see each other one other time? But - above all - what will remain of this soul? If a beautiful day, a far away day in time and maybe in space, it will happen to be together, to promise each other that from that moment we will be like that forever, what will remain of this soul, if in the meantime it twists, tears and rip, feeling every day a bit more closer to collapse?
Because it will be easier, tremendously, clearly, obviously easier. Saying farewell, filling the time to the airport with the tears, telling yourself that you will die of nostalgia and then, halfway home, understand that this is not the first time you're here, this is not the first time you thought you would die, but also that you will survive.
It will be terrible to say farewell, looking at those eyes that implore you while they set you free, vainly promising that one day we will meet again, that there will be a time to travel again, this time together, with his head resting on my shoulder, with my hand in the his hand, and my city, or his city or some new country in the eyes.
It will be terrible to say farewell and look at that smile, one of those smiles that arise from that dull pain, sometimes huge and sometimes very thin, but always difficult to explain, and to think that there will be not another time when that smile will shead tears from your eyes, there will be not another time when you will desire to kiss those lips all night long, and you will wish to make love to be, once again, only one thing, me and him.
And I do not know whether to say if it is more terrible, or dangerous, or painful to think the opposite. To think that this may not be the last time. To think that there will be other arrivals and departures, there will be endless hugs when we finally meet again, and sweet kisses when in the sadness of a goodbye, we will hide the promise of a new meeting.
Can a soul endure from twisting and tearing and ripping, and yet accepting this destiny in the name of a dreamed, dreamable, and very impredictable future? It is worthwhile getting up every morning thinking how far he is, how long will it be, how far it will be necessary to go even just to see each other one other time? But - above all - what will remain of this soul? If a beautiful day, a far away day in time and maybe in space, it will happen to be together, to promise each other that from that moment we will be like that forever, what will remain of this soul, if in the meantime it twists, tears and rip, feeling every day a bit more closer to collapse?