Mael’s dad has no sons.

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Mael’s dad right now could be swimming or playing golf or buying new pants.
He could be doing anything.
For Mael’s dad doesn’t really have a son.
Mael is at the same place everyday.
A day off is out of the question.
So many things to do, so much responsabilities.
He wants to be a doctor.
And first things first.
They have the same eyes, but look at things in completely diferent ways.
(Funny how the same blood created such different things)
They have the same height and the same strenght, but they use it on opposite ways.
Mael wants to change the world.
He works with kids who have his same unanswered questions.
He doesn’t have any answers either but he undestands.
Mael’s dad wants to change his car again this year.
He dates girls too young to ask questions.
He wonders if he should go back to Rome or France, he needs a change.
He left his son to follow happiness, but happiness seems to keep moving away no matter what.
And they cross each other on the street sometimes but they never notice.
Mael’s dad head is always down, on a frown, lost on bills and regrets and numbers.

Mael’s head is up on a big smile, his white coat as pure and clean as his mind.

Luis was born a painter (he’ll never know)


Luis was born an artist.
His fingers, like pencils, ready to live.

Except no one gave him a canvas.
The family business was accountancy.
His father’s hobby were fast cars.
His brother loved football.
So he grew up swimming in cars, soccer balls, numbers.
He grew up wanting racing cars for christmas.
He though that was all, he never knew.
His fingers locked up like colors on a box.
Luis locked up in an office on a suit.
His beard trimmed, his hair slicked back.
How could he imagine? He never knew.
And his hands that only learned how to make numbers wake up at night.
They open and close while he sleeps.
And he dreams.
He dreams waves of colors that make no sense, that eat him alive.
He rises at 6:45, to the digits on his alarm.
Drinks 1 cup of coffee, black.

Irons a nice shirt, drives to work, greets co-workers, makes a joke, has a light lunch, meets a friend for a beer, 2 beers, 3 beers, says goodbye, drives home, calls his beautiful girlfriend, smiles.
Then he drops to his knees on the shower and completely breaks down.
His hands hurt.
His head (that only learned numbers) has no idea why…

Was it winter all the time?


Was it winter?

It’s so cold were you were born, over there in Europe.

I bet one bad winter could’ve made you permanently sad.


Was it your house?

Too big and too empty?


Was it your head?

Young and already so full?

The car crash?

The hospitals?

That fight that broke your front teeth?


Was it me?


You threw my perfume away.

You keep going down.

Your cards empty, your phone unanswered.

New addresses, smelly motels.


I’m still up a lot of nights, trying to answer.

Was it an old winter eating up your skin?

Making you see cold in everyone around you?

Or does weather and countries have nothing to do with anything?


Was it winter?


Or was it worst,

Was it me?

People say, people love to say…


This couple promised each other they would be together forever.

And they meant to, they weren’t lying, they really did.


They even built a house, a really nice one.

They had a pool, a big bed and a dog.

As the years went by they loved each other still.


They said forever and they meant to do it.

They built that big house, a really tall one, they were proud.

They were on its roof one day, the view was amazing and they got carried away.

They pretended they were birds and had wings, they closed their eyes and flapped their arms.

Only that for one of them they actually worked.

He rose.

He started to fly.

He went away.


It doesn’t matter which one of them it was, it can be anyone.

It’s simple luck.


People say forever.

And they mean it.

But it’s not always people who decide.

Funny how songs change


Teach me again.

I promise i’ll really listen, i promise i’ll be quiet.

Repeat that song.

The one you used to sing when i was tired.

I was so young the last time i heard it.

I was so young when you died.

So young to remember your smile, or your smell.


Sing me that song, sing me your story.

Because no one was listening to you the day you died.

I couldn’t go to your funeral, i was so little.

They let me eat a lot of candy that day, i don’t remember being sad.


I don’t remember your face, only that you loved birds.

That you kept them outside a cage and still they stayed.

That they loved you back.


Sing me that song,

Because all the memories are gone now that i know you were unhappy.

Sing me that song, the real one.

All your birds are now dead, we grew up, no one will judge.


Sing the truth about you, about your screaming mind, the long nights, about everything.

Open up your cage, you’re free to go.

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