Se Piovesse Il Tuo Nome - con Calcutta

The city hums like an old record player whose needle keeps skipping off the track. Fountains splash, but the thirst doesn't go away, as if everything around can only offer the illusion of quenching. Shops are closing one after another, leaving only a person with a pocketful of change and empty hands, who for some reason still gives the world "change." Love here isn't about confessions or meetings. It's the dry air that absorbs the rain of another name, accidentally fallen between the lines. Every station misses the one you need, and that hurts a little more than the breakup itself. You haven't lost it, so you're still hoping you were wrong about it not being forever. And then suddenly a flower in my mouth instead of words. Stupid, but alive. And in it is all the tenderness that couldn't fit into the songs that never were.