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Sunday Morning Coming Down

The post of the day is in care of Stevie. Good reading.

I open my eyes, still lying on my bed.
begins another Sunday and, like many others, it is already time to start lunch. I'm not hungry, I drank too much tonight, again. I like a steel ball running free in my skull.
I do not feel well, the breath smells of death, no saliva, hair messy, puffy eyes, the face I see in the mirror is to a sixty, I have twenty-six, I see the shame.
There is something about Sunday that makes you feel even more alone, the time effort to flow, like the old numb from the cold that I see on the street in front of the house, one that leads to the church.
I remember the night I said: "I go ...". We talked and I was sincere, as I managed only a few times before. I told her everything and when I opened the door to leave, really, he remained there, motionless, like a tree crashed by lightning, but still alive. I desire the simple
fullness of being together, living together, But for her it was not enough. Now no one can hear me cry. Is there somewhere safe haven? There are good Samaritans? Good luck?
thought to be strong, but so do not know anyone who can judge and it is useless to try to punch the remorse of not done and not said. I burn my head, like the stomach.
The thick snow falls outside, but I have to open the window to smoke their first cigarette.
come back I wonder if those winters I remember as a child when I did not feel the cold when the snow was a blessing and I dropped back to admire the shape of my body satisfied printed in white, like an indelible stamp in time to when the dreams were a reality, palpabile.
Le parole per dire quanto mi dispiace non le ho ancora trovate. Sarebbe troppo facile tornare da lei e le soluzioni facili, si sa, non portano mai a niente di buono.
C'erano giorni in cui mi sentivo bello, fiero e potevo andare in giro spavaldo, smanioso di nuove avventure. Ormai quei giorni sono pochi.
So però che l'estate deve arrivare, prima o poi. Mi alzerò di nuovo dal letto una domenica mattina e ricorderò quest'inverno come una pagina di ieri. Mi ricorderà solo una canzone triste, come ne hanno scritte tante e sono certo che lei lo avrà già capito molto tempo prima.