I thought when we moved here things would be different.
But you are still you, and me, still naive.
As if my perceptions of the future would alter, with which window I lent my gaze.
Our house had changed, my horizons hadn’t. My home was a thousands miles away.
In May, you came home with blood on your shirt.
You tell me this is all for me. You tell me no one was hurt.
My eyes were on your eyes.
I wanted them to move, I wanted you to see, but nothing.
This is my finestrino.
This is where I stay.