le scarpe slacciate

Frozen love songs are like the remnants of summer in the freezer: they still smell like sunshine, but they no longer warm. Everything around reminds me of the past, like planets stuck in orbit around alien things. Even the refrigerator seems to hum in time with broken promises. Everything in this sound is like an attempt to restart a film that froze on the most important frame. It's useless: the internet doesn't pick up feelings, the signal doesn't return. Only the smell of summer still lingers on my palms, like a ghost of what could have been if the tires hadn't gone flat and the backpack hadn't been closed, one I can no longer fit into. The music swings between bitterness and laughter at its own naivety, as if someone had promised themselves not to cry, but still giggles when their heart breaks in two again.