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"This is where it ends"
You have always been a good liar.
I like to believe that the both of us knew, from the very moment you pronounced those hurtful words already, that they were nothing more than a blatant lie. I clearly could see it in the way your as ever as beautiful eyes diverted elsewhere, unable to meet mine, and you nervously chewed the same lips which I had kissed hundred of times by then and would have wished to kiss a hundred more.
However the grief they had put on me did not allow any rational thought, as my mind was clouded with such many emotions I could just silently watch you leave by the door of our home.
Our home which would only be mine from then on, yet hardly has ever felt as such without you there.
Sometimes I wonder what would it have been if that night I had stopped you from going, gripped on your delicate wrist with all the strength in my body and asked you why you were throwing four years behind as if they had meant nothing. Asked why did I not deserve even a reason to mourn on for the rest of my existence in this world and beyond.
You gave me nothing to hold on, you left our relationship with nothing but regrets on my side.
Had I not been a coward perhaps it would have been different and you would still be here by my side, mine. I do not own you anymore and I will never be able to forgive myself for letting that happen.
And I do not think you might comprehend how much I have missed everything you took away with you.
Seeing your golden strands spread on the pillow first in the morning, warm rays of sun on your rosy cheeks which would make your eyelashes flutter and wake you up.
The scent of boiling hot coffee, obviously bitter, filling the room followed by the cup left in the sink to clean as you locked yourself up in the bathroom for far too long, until you came out immaculate and would question me about how you looked, despite always telling you were perfect no matter what.
Your half of the wardrobe, although you ended up taking more, filled with the clothes you so much cared for, so empty now as I do not have enough to put in it.
Kissing you goodbye before we headed out for the day and kissing you welcome back at our return.
Holding your hips from behind while we cooked dinner together, you wearing that awful apron patterned with flowers your aunt had gifted to you one Christmas, because you claimed you would rather appear ridiculous for the time being than let spurts of tomato sauce ruin your expensive suit.
The cuddles on the sofa, television on background as we ate what we had prepared and shared the highlights of our respective jobs, like that occasion a colleague of yours had somehow mistaken the paper shredder for the copy machine and destroyed a bunch of important documents.
Doing love to you covered by the sheets of our bed, your delighted moans when I hit the right spot and the hands on my back drawing line with your nails, you feisty one.
But more than anything else, I have missed you.
I have tried to forget you, I truly wanted to.
And I tried and tried over and over again, but in spite of how strong each of my attempt was, it was bound to fail since you could never leave my heart the way you left my life.
No one could steal your place either because no one was, is and never will be the same as you, sure it sounds cheesy but it is what it is. I gave you all of myself and would do it again without hesitation, to build the future I dreamt for us and you rejected.
I have felt truly miserable without you, like if I did not know where to go with my life.
I clinged to those few things I had not lost with your departure, barely a couple really, that were my occupation and the three people I can call my friends. I straightforward avoided engaging with Leone since I recalled you and Bruno likely kept and were in contact, but Formaggio attempted to hook me up with random strangers at a bar.
He said you were, and I suppose still are in his optics, a "stuck up bitch who was only after a good fuck and I deserved better", mind you his words, not mine. I refused to acknowledge this as the truth, for it would imply you were there four long years merely for my dick and that would be more degrading than relieving to hear, but I have to reveal I almost convinced myself it was the case.
Why would you have otherwise broken up with me without a single sentence of explanation after all we had shared?
Why else would you have been so cruel to me if I had ever meant to you a fiftieth of what you meant to me?
Was I that disillusioned to think you had cared a minimum at some point?
Frankly it would have been easier to accept the way Formaggio presented it, yet again I could not get over you and the innocent belief that between us there was reciprocal love once.
There still is love, but on the reciprocating part I rightfully have some doubts.
Regardless I am grateful towards Formaggio for consistently trying to cheer me up when I needed it the most and I forgave him for coming up with such horrible things and plenty more off your name.
I would tell you about them in great detail, but I am afraid my memory decided to black out the majority, perhaps I had been drunk on absinthe when I was listening to them, difficult to state. Just be aware, the guy may not be the definition of a literate yet masters the use of dozens of synonyms for bitch, escort, whore, prostitute, slut, wench, have you ever heard harlot before? He certainly got them all.
Time inexorably passed and it hurt nonetheless, though by the end of February I was slowly making an improvement and did not spend my nights with your pillow between my arms, hoping it were you, anymore and gained some hours of sleep back.
I was finding a new routine which worked for me, was doing better at coping with emotions and even joined bar hopping with Formaggio and his newest flame on some occasions.
Illuso has almost as much wit in his mouth as you have, he keeps his hair long but they are dark unlike yours. He can come off as rude at the very beginning, but when you start to get to understand his humour he is not bad at all.
You would enjoy him around I think, Formaggio certainly does.
Ghiaccio is also seeing a kid from his university, though I have yet to meet him, I bet you want to know that too.
Anyway, I was doing fairly decent up until fate decided to play the cruelest joke on me and my heart probably skipped a beat or two or three or more that cloudy day of mid-March.
I was there to replace an old consumed pair of shoes and almost brushed it off as a mirage, you passing by the shopping district as gracious as, if not more, the time we first met, dressed in a grey trench coat and high waisted pants, hair buns that kind of messy it looks well thought.
You looked like a candid angel, breathtaking creature surrounded by humans who would never reach an equal level to yours, too inferior to your beauty and classy bearing.
Now sober I kind of reason you had actually been more like a lustful devil afterall, sent by God to seduce me for some sick test which I definitely promptly failed.
I blinked at that vision of you and it took me a bit to realize it was real, as I could not process the idea you were there in front of me, walking away from me a second time. I almost chased you down, legs ready to sprint between the crowd, to arrive to you at the cost of rudely pushing people off my path with their big and heavy bags, yet I froze on my spot with chills in my veins, as if it was not enough already, I then also saw the man that was there with you.
I immediately realised why months went by empty as void, not a single call or message from you in said span, not a reply to mine either as you sat scrolling your phone on the lap of another guy. Everything suddenly made sense to me, I got the answers I was desperately searching for despite despising them and fatiguing to accept the reality of things before me.
You have someone else, that is the truth.
And even if I did not have any right to it, my blood was spiked with jealousy and indeed envy, whereas observing his hands gird your model-like figure to hold you close to him.
I must have seemed so stupid to those jogging by, immobile and incredulous in the middle of the street such a dead fish of some sort, but I did not care at all, as only you and your new partner existed to me then.
Honestly, I wish to hate you.
To hate you because you deserve it for what you have thrown me under and maybe Formaggio has had his point all along and you really are a damn cock-thirsty bitch, which I cannot see too blinded by feelings.
That day my mind was on the verge of giving up and call it a wrap, fucking finally.
But when our gazes briefly encountered, blue regal and clear as the sky, memories of four happy years flashed before me in a second and I had to make peace with the fact no way I can bring myself to view you as anything but beautiful inside and out.
Pathetic Risotto, pathetic.
I just stared, you shivered quite imperceptibly and quickly got in his red Ferrari, drove away and I ended up forgetting to buy the shoes.
At least I was sure you had not forgotten my face.
An evening about two weeks after I was not expecting any visit, which are rare to begin with and strangely ever unannounced.
Formaggio was hanging out with Illuso's siblings, Ghiaccio was super busy preparing an exam and would have called for sure beforehand. No way it was Leone who has far too much pride to knock, unless in a drunkenly depressed state which I was in too, and the only other person to own my address is my boss, which dear lord I could have not standed at eight pm.
The doorbell rang and, wanting to get whatever it was done as fast as possible to turn back to my consolation drinking, I opened with the bottle of alcohol steady in my grab, expecting Diavolo with a pile of paperwork at the very worst. I proceed to nearly shatter the glass on the floor.
You were there, one step out what I continued to consider your house too over the past five months, even if it hardly was at this point, blue gaze fixed on me with lips between your teeth.
I should have closed the door before your pretty face as Formaggio suggested later.
But I was weak, I still am for you.
Both of us did not speak a word, although they definitely were required, as you hugged my neck and I instinctively lifted you up from the ground and slammed you against the wall.
Mouths found each other hungrily, probably the most passionate kiss we had ever shared.
We rolled in bed, clothes discarded unceremoniously on the path to the room and I was able to touch your milky skin, biting and sucking until mark dotted over your torso and toned stomach.
I was able to thrust in the heat of your tight and soft flesh until you cried out in bliss shouting my name.
I was able to spend myself into you, holding you down from the shoulders onto the mattress as you quivered under my weight.
What I was not able to do was to make love to you, to feel you fully mine again, because sadly you were not.
By the next morning once more I was alone, a warm vacant spot on your side of the bed.
Next time I encountered you I was grabbing coffee with Diavolo's secretary, Vinegar Doppio.
It was casual, he had suddenly wanted espresso after lunch break and I had nothing better to do than accompanying him to the little hipster shop two blocks away, so there we were.
The place does not fit the aesthetic I go for usually and neither yours, therefore I was indeed surprised to see you at a table, stirring your hot drink with cream.
I needed to talk to you, clear out what had happened that night but he was there too.
Of course he was.
Arms around your shoulders where hickeys had faded, smug on his face with the consciousness of owning you such a pristine trophy of some kind. I can not deny the fact sat wrong with me and angered me down inside, observing you sweetly cuddling with another man after the passion we had shared the prior month was too much for me and I turned back to Vinegar chattering, not hearing a thing from him.
I came first and had put my entirety in your hands, what does he have that I do not?
Is tons of money the answer, are you this shallow my dear? You do have an expensive taste, although prostituting yourself for it does not suit you a bit.
Or maybe he fucks you better than I do and you enjoy being stuffed full by his cock? Why would you return to my bed though, if that was the case.
Perhaps I am just a better dildo to you, Formaggio might be right on that.
I should not have gotten prince Albert.
I should not have allowed you to use me.
I can not help myself.
I will never understand you.
Having coffee with Vinegar after lunch at Café Scacchi became a habit of ours.
I knew you would be there every time and I was tired of hunting you as if you were an elusive prey, but that did not mean I was done with you either. Instead of approaching you and seeing you run away like a frightened deer I gave you space and patiently waited for you to come to my hand.
Thursday afternoon May 5 I was playing interested, whereas Vinegar was babbling about our colleague Squalo proposing to Tiziano from human resources when you claimed the chair next to his. You introduced yourself as an old friend of mine, not mentioning anything further which stung a bit, and exchanged pleasantries with a smile I could tell was fake.
Vinegar had no fault in this, yet you looked at him with murderous stare while manicured nails thorned the napkin in your hand. I noticed they were slightly chipped at the tip, small imperfections like you had dragged them against something with spite.
You were losing your strict composure in broad daylight and I was enthusiastic about it, I think I have smiled genuinely for once since our reunion.
Were you still jealous of me?
Seriously?
"I don't like when you give attention to others" was the only phrase you said when I opened the door to you that night.
You did not give me enough of a moment to put it together as you jumped on me lasciviously devouring my lips, leading me inside.
You rode my dick on the couch till two in the morning, going at it repetitively minus short breaks in between to catch our breaths and regain stamina. You had gotten mad for it, thrusting it deep in even after cumming, overstimulating your spot to the point it hurt.
No words were spoken except for cusses.
When you left that day, I was not sad like the first time you did.
I was sure you would be there the following one.
We had sex up to five times a week for three consecutive weeks.
It was fresh, it was wild, none of us could suppress that primordial desire which brought us close to each other again and again.
It was anything but the relationship we had, emotions kept on the side and merely any communication emerged unless it concerned fucking you harder. You were extremely dismissive and I was content enough as I preferred it that way rather than losing you completely twice.
We did not talk.
Did not talk until you showed up with a bottle of white Chianti to fill my fridge and, when I have asked, replied it was for yourself.
I think I like you better drunk because drunk you tend to be more honest.
"My father chose him for me. Said I need someone who can provide for me and I couldn't refuse him I swear"
Tears fell across your tinted cheeks and you let me wipe them carefully with my fingers, as I do not enjoy watching you cry.
Quit crying, it pains me when you cry.
"It was the biggest mistake I've made"
Your head buried in my chest while I hug your waist, so you could listen to the sound of my heart racing everytime you are next to me.
My heart beats as such for you, only for you.
"I love you"
Sealing your words with a gentle kiss, your lips pressing against mine, I hope it is not another one of your lies. Between us it has never ended.
That was a lie, do not lie to me ever again.
I love you too Prosciutto. I have never stopped to.