My king

By Gisella Laterza

Ride, horse, drag me away.

Drag me away from the pain I have already caused, drag me away from a pre-written destiny which I want to change.

Let me forget, let me live him down.

Francis.

Francis, forgive me. I can't remain here, at the castle, I can't explain. You would not understand. Sometimes we have to make painful choices, but this is a warm pain that will protect you when I will be away. It will keep you out of the danger, you couldn't have a future next to me; there can't be love.

You know it.

Love is irrelevant to people like us.

But…

But I remember. I remember when we were children, when we ran among steep stairways and secret passages. When our world was made of colours and games and all the castle looked like a unique room, full of sweetness and sun.

When we were just Mary, just Francis.

I remember.

I remember when I saw you again. The child of my memories now represents the love of today.

I remember.

I remember that night, when I were frantically dancing with my friends, and suddenly some feathers fell down from above. Light feathers, soft feathers, like they were escaped from an angel's wing. I danced, feathers danced, and in that endless swirl I saw your eyes for the first time.

It is so strange how, only looking at your eyes that time, I have changed the way I see the world. You looked beautiful like an angel. You looked at me like a child look at a fairy tale.

I remember.

I remember quarrels, misunderstandings, all the difficulties.

However, against all enemies and all problems, we loved each other. An obstinate and tenacious love, a love that didn't want to die.

I remember.

I remember when that love carried you in a castle full of Italian soldiers, only to save me; when that love carried me in your bed.

I remember, Francis, your hands sliding on my dress, and I remember how you throw my garments off, as you was chasing away a bad dream.

I remember you, Francis, while your body slid on me and you became mine, my light, my spirit, my king, forever.

Memories are ghosts without heart. They are inconsistent demons, inconsistent like the fears I don't have to feel.

But I still feel these fears.

I'm afraid, also I'm going away, I'm afraid.

I'm afraid because I don't know if I will be able to stay away from you, so I ride fast; I don't want to look back anymore, I don't want to look at you anymore, because I'm sure I would stop.

Let me go, Francis, I beg you. Let me go away.

Don't follow me.

Don't look for me.

Don't cry my name.

© Gisella Laterza,

author of

Di me diranno che ho ucciso un angelo (Rizzoli, 2013)