The chat

In the darkest night, in the purest silence, our tragic scene develops. Your lips adhered to mine by magnetic attraction, my eyes united to your fate. And in the profound hollow that my absence leaves: your little lament, that won’t be heard. Through your arms full of wind a few tears roll down for the shipwrecked love. My stone cover dissolves at the time as my spirit is given off this useless, sterile time.
The furies keep watch longing to dominate you, but you silent as ever, battle them with cold looks, with no fear as someone who has lost it all and hasn’t much to win. In your arms I leave my last breath…
“What are you thinking?”, you ask with absurd naiveté. That’s all you had to spoil me the fantastic scene of pathetic misfortune I had designed for myself. It was wonderful, to think in your little world corroding by guilt. Why the hell do you ask me what I think.
“In you”, I say with fake and cynical smile. What a way out! Only I can think of such a nonsense, surely you will ask what I think, that’s it! Your lips start to move. Horror! The question… I knew it! You are so disgustingly predictable. And I ask you “would you cry?, I ask without words, to avoid explanations, with a look of secret scrutiny.
You don’t understand, of course. You have never been able to know what I’m thinking. And now, what do I reply? No, better quiet, and with a kiss I kill finally the conversation.
Why didn’t I stay home?
And back to the speeches, I see you monologue like a kid enthusiastic and fresh, while you spell a whole pale and innocent epistle of the kindness of our expired life together, while I struggle alone with my dark thoughts.
“Hey, are you listening?”
the automatic response: “of course I am, darling”
Lie. I could have been observing that miserable piece of parsley stuck in your teeth, but I wasn’t I had my own encounter with the interminable issue: the nothingness, the impertinent self that persists to me: “you are free!” I don’t need you, I don’t love you, I’m fed up.
And the plot thickens on you sad discurse of the aesthetic values of human relations, ours of course. Why can’t you understand out verbs haven’t conjugated in first person of the plural since a long time ago? It’s been months since we are just you and I separately, not “us”. The rest was just part of the acnecdotic book of lies and hypocrisy., just like being here, listening to you blasphemy against love.
How dare you invoke it’s name in my presence? You who are not capable of surrender. I seek, throughout your face, perhaps a little gesture that could convince me to stay here in the midst of this farce. And you talk about the future when I’m not even sure about the present, when the road to my fears is ever more narrow and the loneliness together is even more solid.
The falsehood pulsating over me fills me with rancor. I dream of revenge and I see you there, sitting waiting for a response to a question to which it is no time to answer.
You pick up my tense hands from the table, you trap it in yours. Your eyes are full of tears and you ask me if I know. How can I not know, I know you more than myself. Enough to know when you’re lying. I could say no and let you dream nothing happened, but I don’t. Facing your troubled gesture I stand up finally, I don’t love you enough to forgive you the lack of loyalty. Without looking back I leave for oblivion.