Stavo Pensando A Te

The world is spinning again to a soft beat, where the smell of warmed-up lasagna and salt on skin are just as important details as strangers' eyes in the darkness of a bar. Everything seems like a joke: laughter, a sip of wine, the phrase about the sky being "like a painting." And then suddenly a lump in my throat, because it's such a familiar feeling: we can't be together, and we shouldn't meet at all. In every line, there's a lazy sun, morning breath, and thoughts that only come after the second glass. What seemed light and casual turns into something sticky, like sand that doesn't wash off after the sea. And all that remains is this strange feeling that life has been squandered, and the pause button hasn't been pressed.