Sanremo lyrics

I went out looking for you,
But I couldn't find you,
I breathe the same air and feel the same sun,
But I didn't find you,
I thought of what to tell you,
To confess my utter love for you,
To indulge in those fireworks you make me feel,
But I didn't find you.

You see, I did find your house,
Yet I dared not knock on the door,
I felt jealousy, you know, the stupid type,
For I feared someone might be there with you.

I dreamt of your eyes last night,
Of sinking in their caramel beauty,
I reckoned I gotta look for you once again,
To tell you how much I love you,
So I did, but you found me first,
At the door of the restaurant.


I am my crooked nose. I am my dry, cold hands at four in the morning. I am my twitchy right eye. I am the pain in the bones and muscles of my face. I am the song I hum while I walk. I am the voice that tries to remember what is to be done today. Done. I drink an espresso americano to focus on every single task I am to carry out. Well, not every task. My memory sucks. Like when I was to order that birthday cake and completely forgot. Or when I was to bring something somewhere and I did not. Everything to remember is important. There are no petty memories, I reckon. Not especially when they haunt you back in your dreams. And I say 'haunt' since they are unexpected. Like the dream about the market and the gangsters and the run and that woman. I woke up and remembered: remembered the dream and remembered the girl. It is ugly when someone does not give a shite about you in real life, it is worse when it happens in a dream. Your dream. I do not give a shite about that man in the dream, savvy? I noticed that every time I touch my nose in any dream it feels crooked. No matter where I am, it does. I can feel the hard cartilage twisting right to abruptly go left. I can feel from the outside how tiny my right nostril is. So, when there is cold and my left nostril is clogged cause I am sick, I have such a hard time to breathe. I cough, grasping for air as if I could. Trying. Stop trying, she says, he says. If I did, if I had, the whole lot of things, the Earth for sure would not be the same. Cause I would have jumped off that bridge when I was a kid. Choose life or death, my grandpa once told me. And one would think life is all about that, you see. Choose whatever the fuck you may want to. I chose to cross instead of becoming splatter. But that is not the whole point, innit? Stop fucking trying. As if. There would not be words, there would not be memories, there would not be whom to write on cold days. We would not be together. This cup of coffee would not be here, exhaling steam, bitterly sweet, infusing life to the room.

To paint the world, my world, in notes and words I try — Dent, J.