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29 April 2018


Dear Color, Welcome Back

by Valentina De Simone

You’re at my door, knocking. Even if there’s no name on it.
You’ve always liked this house and you’ve passed great times here in the meanwhile when we’ve been together.
Now I’m sat the spy-hole staring at you and finding you taller than I remember, perhaps even more elegant than the last time I’ve seen you. But it’s probably just because that evening we’ve argued, and I left.

I’m here, again.
How’s life going? I’m late, as usual and I know it.
Can you come out? Can you open the balconies, at least? Please.
I promise you it won’t snow for a while or icy fog neither.
I assure that , for a while, the leaden clouds will give you a mercy and you hair won’t seem green anymore.
Open the door please, and I guarantee I will force this stagnant air way out, and this gray dust too.
You can trust me, it’ll take just a few days for you to recognize again the smell of your place.
I understand you if you don’t want me back.
But if you open this door there are a lot of things I’ll give to you.
I’ll give to you the light at 20:00 pm, and I’ll make you wanna going out at night. This will be one of the reasons why soon you’ll be tasting again that exotic sensation – that “I honestly can’t tell if I’m on vacation or it’s just sunday” feeling.
And then, when you get back, you’ll be leaning on the cool side of the pillow ready to start a journey to that side of the bed that has never been “just yours” before.
At the end you’ll fall asleep smelling the violet perfume of the wisteria and the right to feel right.

Let me in.
I’m here, I’m back.
We can talk more. we can talk better
Are you good for a breakfast?


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Valentina De Simone

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Valentina De Simone


Community Manager with a passion for sociology, I've lived for six years between Padua and Milan. Once I wrote an odd theory on Mathematics, on a Mathematics task. I took zero and the professor told me that I had to find an outlet for my too much imagination, if I wanted to live in the real world. I bought a notepad and began to write to him everything that was going through my head, so love for writing was born, love for expression.

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