(a year)

Temporality baffles me.

Pain is pain is pain is pain is pain is painful. A year, and I miss him, a year and he is gone, one year and he is.
He was.
A year ago I said goodbye.
A year ago my clothes were torn to depict on the outside what was happening inside. A year ago I said goodbye. He left eight years ago.

It seems, if it’s possible, that I have a name Karma. Why would I have around me so many people I love who carry his name? the name I repeat myself to sleep soundlessly, the name that is marked forever by his absence.

One year and I am healed, or rather, it seems as if the pained, torn soul has healed, it has knitted itself a scarf in which it hides and looks out, fearlessly, with open pupils, seeking for a face in the crowd. The face I will never see again (but in the reflection of a smile reflecting on a tear). A year ago was goodbye. Now, today, a year later, temporality instead of separating reality from fantasy, from a fiction that should have never happened, gives it a sense of unequivocal certainty.

A goodbye is a goodbye. And it is also a suspended moment in time where the hands still touch, where a hug will forever exist.