COME SE NON FOSSI NEI GUAI

Love is the kind that smells of gasoline and expensive Chanel No. 5, explosive, with a hint of regret and foolish happiness. She's like driving on wet asphalt at night: headlights reflecting in the puddles, your heart pounding out of your chest, and yet you still press the gas, as if there's not a cliff ahead but salvation. There's a little guilt and a little tenderness in every word, as if two people can't quite decide who will let go of the steering wheel first. Whether to shoot or pray, the line is thin, almost beautiful. And when it's all over, a lipstick mark remains on the pillow and the question: was it worth it? Of course, yes. If only for that sound, alive and uneven, like breathing after an argument.