Non è mica te

When love leaves, the city seems to fade. The bar lights lose their warmth, even the glass in your hand becomes just glass with liquid, without meaning. Everything seems the same as before – the same roof, the same evening, even the laughter at the next table is similar – but inside, it's as if the lights have been turned off. Memory, that treacherous thing, throws up little details: how she wrinkled her nose when she spilt the sauce, how she laughed as if she were afraid of choking on happiness. The new girl across the street is beautiful, smart, and proper, but she's not mine. And no matter how many times I tell myself "it's all over," my body still searches for her shadow in every movement. The music sounds like a confession, exhaled through wine and shame. No drama, just exhaustion and a warm ache that doesn't want to heal. Love is over, but the aftertaste remains like the last ray of sunshine clinging to the roof, knowing night is about to fall.