Mood after Italy

You let him come to Italy. Live dangerously, you call it. Live cautiously is not to let him come. Majestic him. Whom you know you cannot resist.
The experience was vertiginous. When you live the ups you have to be ready for the downs. Who wants rain must expect the muds. You were ready. Or at least you think you are ready. Ready for the downs, the moment you kiss goodbye at the station. When you only want romance, that is what you get. The slow and irregular heartbeats when he walks away. You take the last train. Outside the night is falling. The rain drops stick on the window and slowly disapear, just like the memories of your day spent with him.
The next day you get these symptoms of those who are in love. Are you too? The question is irrelevant. You should have things under control. Vulnerability is not part of your vocabulary.
The next day the symptoms are acute. You think of him the moment you open your eyes in the morning. His smile. His strong arms. His blue eyes when he looks at you. You hardly eat. You live out of memories. Your heart feels weak. Your brain functions half of its capacity.
You embrace the symptoms. If truly you are in love, then it is a gift. But you doubt the symptoms will last. You hope somehow they will last. For once, you let your guard down.
You think love is a decision. Rationality. There is nothing more powerful than your brain. How long are you going to let him stay in your heart. Some will say that it is not love if you can control.
The second day you still feel dizzy but the memories of his smiling eyes fade away already a little bit. But the feeling of him is still very present. Now you are tipsy when you think of him. And it is nothing in comparison to the moment you went to the bar to meet him in Italy, that moment you feel like you have swallowed a bottle of wine all by yourself.
You dont know how to fall in love and how to be with someone. You only feel. Your five senses tell you what love is. Love is science fiction. Love is alien for you. Yet the symptoms of love are earthy for you. Even in the landing you can feel them.

And the bus is here…

bustop

Most of the times you don’t like to miss the bus late in the night because the following one would come in at least 20 minutes. And when it is cold, and when it is raining, you just want to get home as quickly as possible as your day was already too long.

But sometimes the “most of the times” does not work. You just miss the bus. The next one is indeed in 20 minutes. But this time you don’t mind. Because he is there, waiting with you. It is cold. It is raining. You have never been that happy that you had missed the bus. You have never been that grateful that the wait was at least 20 minutes. You even wish for the bus to come later than scheduled. You would not mind at all. It is cold. It is raining.

You get soaked in his arms. Each kiss is wet of tenderness. He holds you tight. All the year long, you hate the rain, you hate the cold. Now the cold is your ally, the rain your best friend. You feel like a heroin in an old movie. You feel like you are in front of your hero. You feel his lips. Over and over again. The 20 minutes are the worthiest ones to live, the worthiest ones on the planet “Time”.

You feel like a kid. You feel like an adolescent falling in love for the first time. You feel like an accomplished woman knowing when it is true love. You want to say something. But there is no need to say anything. Your eyes mean any expression of love all together.

19 minutes. 18 minutes. 17 minutes.

Three seconds.  Two seconds. One second.

The bus is here. One last kiss. After how many kisses. 19 minutes. 60 seconds in a minute. One kiss a second. 1’140 kisses. Or something like that. The last kiss. You feel it like a deep cut.

You enter the bus. You wave at him. In the rain he waves back. He is magisterial. He is majestic. You turn your head. You cannot stand anymore this view of him. Your chest is exploding. You know this kind of romantism would kill you if you continue. You know that this kind of love is the best but also the worst. You touch your lips. A bit numb of his kisses. You smell your fingers embalmed with his perfume. You look outside. The rain is still there. You count the raindrops and find them infinitely smaller than the amount of love you feel for him. You look outside. You love your city. You love the night bus. And everything he has seen with you.