Mi dispiace

You ask me for a light and I turn away, pretending not to hear you. You walk away, finding somebody else. Always, you smile at me, a million times more than I care to count. At programs, at impromptu gatherings, in the middle of the sunburnt streets bleeding red, even at random moments when we cross each other's paths in that dilapidated building that cradles young hearts with fiery voices. And always, I look down pretending to fiddle with a book, or a cig, or a pen, anything, anything at all, so I would not have to meet your expectant gaze. Or, when the demons get the better of me, I raise an eyebrow, or frown. You turn away.

In another lifetime, perhaps, we could have talked, shared jokes and cigarettes, theorized, laughed and cried about the bumps and twisting turns of this protracted journey.

For we walk on the same rough road to freedom: carry the same flags, bear the same burdens, and will share the same eventual triumph.

But that is in another lifetime. For the sun that eludes my sight, in yours takes delight.

And (now) there is nothing but


re·gret

/rɪˈgrɛt/ [ri-gret]

–verb (used with object)
to feel sorrow or remorse for (an act, fault, disappointment, etc.)

Non posso.