I didn't know that learning to live without you would be a cruel, absurd, impossible art. An art that I don't want to master, but that every day forces me to try.
When I wake up, your absence greets me first, with a sharp, accurate and unanesthetised blow. I walk avoiding looking where you were before, but everything betrays me, your trace is everywhere.
I look at the chair that waits in vain for your weight, the door that no longer opens with your laughter, the mirror where I can't find your reflection. Everything is still here... and at the same time, nothing is here.
I look for you in the sounds, in the wood, in the wind, I close my eyes and I can almost hear you, almost touch you. But reality is a merciless executioner, and this art of not seeing you is more and more demanding.
It asks me to go on, to learn, to get used to it, to carry you only in memories, as if they were enough. But the truth is that they are not, because it hurts not to see you, not to hear you, not to touch you.
It hurts with an intensity that tears the soul, and although life goes on, I drown in its current. They tell me that time will heal the absence... But what do they know of the emptiness you left?