Your nose never bode anything promising.
Too sharp and straight to be condescending.
It is too delicate to be overwhelmed by the stench of the world.
You have always given me the impression of an incurable snob, perhaps more for self-defense than for authentic choice, but still incurable.
And so, it is almost inevitable that, of you, this is the first thing I see, as soon as you get out of the arrivals.
It is true that, since the last time, you have definitely grown, yet remain unmistakable.
At least for me who, immediately after the nose, I have the opportunity to appreciate the valuable rest that distinguishes your essence on this earth. I never understood what you have to leave me breathless every time, like at sixteen.
Only now I have learned not to ask again and to allow it to act with impunity, without however reducing me to its power.
I admit it, you still continue to bewitch me, despite all these years and despite our distant life and I can't do much about it. As the Poet wants, I feel it happens but, if nothing else, I no longer remain crucified to my pain.