When vuoi

When you want ", you told me," when you want you can call me ".

Your tone of voice was unusually low and your gaze was that elusive and wandering of those who don't see the time for everything to be over.
You went by greeting me with an uncertain nod of the hand and leaving me with that last sentence, which probably for you was only the palliative of a "farewell" that you just couldn't pronounce.

You couldn't have any idea of how much those words would have tormented me in the years to come.
When you want. How could you have said so seriously?
You know very well that I would have liked to call you right away.
I would have liked to call you at any time, from what you climbed the train after that farewell disguised as goodbye to that in which I crossed the door of my house, confused and lost, continuing to ask me in my head "and now?”.

I would have liked to call you every time your lack brought me a smile just mentioned, every time I had something to be proud of, every time I heard our song on the radio, every time someone on the street was wearing your own jacket, every time I read your name on a wall or bench, every time I almost felt guilty of being happy without you.

If I had really listened to you, if I had really called you when I wanted, your phone would have ringed every single day.
You would never have had to leave me with a false hope in my hands, deluding myself that perhaps, one day, when I really wouldn't be able to bear your absence, I could have heard your voice again.
Have another chance.
Have yet another glimpse, a way to go back.

You should not have had to.
Many times I've hoped that the last sentence was sincere, that somehow you would really like to hear me still.
Many times I've grabbed the phone in the middle of the night by observing your number for endless minutes.
Many times I asked myself if you really would have answered me.
And many, too many, countless times I have built conversations in my head that would never have existed in reality.

Your last words have made it even harder to forget.
That farewell that you have never been able to pronounce destroyed me more than everything else.
And even today, from time to time, when I fall prey to the past and nostalgia, I wonder if you have ever really waited for my phone call at least half of what I have waited for your farewell worthy of the name.