Vagabond Multilingual Journal Spring 2005 | Page 25

The Night Flies That night I had decided to party my ass off. I was trying to forget him. But every time that I’d remember that dammed guy that came directly from hell with that angelical mouth...I’d want that existence stopped so I could kiss him once more. Oh god, fall in love, why? I know why, his sweet masculine voice speaking to me in Roman dialect, his wavy blond hair (dyed last spring), his blue eyes, his golden body tanned at Ostia. At Ostia we met, the ancient abandoned Roman port, abandoned just like me. The frenetic music, the drunken youth, the sweaty bodies dancing to the sound of tecno. What did I care? What did we care? We were all imature, careless, passionate. I drank, I smoked, I kissed others whom I didn’t love, but not even like this was I able to forget him. How to leave in the past all that had happened? Passions and emotions are only good for far away memories, cliched stories and bitter poems. ‘Cuz love can be sweet but when it ends it’s really bitter. Broken heart, it’s an old story, but it still surprises when it happens to me. I couldn’t understand why I allowed myself to suffer like this. But one is not supposed to unerstand love, only feel it. If I could understand it I would’t be here writing crazy thoughts in a mediocre poem. My Florentine friends told me (with that beautiful Toscan accent that only they themselves can master): “Romans are cynical, don’t trust ‘em, I am telling you! I didn’t believe it, and now another summer love ended in tragedy. But one is not supposed to understand love... My favorite song was playing, that famous one by Loretta Cuccarini from the 80s: The Night Flies With air in its throat When you fall in love Someone will console you, Oh Boy... That night nobody consoled me.

Luiz Augusto Silva Batista

VAGABOND

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