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At the beginning, what brought us together
from every corner of the world, down to the soul,
was love—
pure, bare, stronger than any border.
Two women are not allowed to love each other
on Italian television
when the armchairs are filled
with eyes frozen in fear.
They were forbidden the fire,
so they carried it in silence:
in the flicker of an eyelash,
in a hand that brushes past without daring to stay.
The king of the game won:
he sowed discord,
he crowned division,
and we bit the hook.
We took up arms
to defend scraps of story
that had only been lent to us,
the way one claims ownership of stars
one has never touched.
Yet some of us saw.
Those who know love
because they have felt it in their throat,
in their veins,
in flesh that trembles at the sound of a name.
They saw the truth
in a gaze that lingers too long,
in a breath that stops when the other walks in,
in fingers reaching for air
where skin is missing.
Love is not performed.
It is breathed.
It is recognized by the scent of rain
when two souls finally brush against each other.
One year already,
and the heart still beats to the same rhythm.
In fifty years,
strangers will still whisper
this forbidden story
that never needed words
to be the most beautiful declaration ever written.
Let us never forget why we are here.
We are not defending contestants.
We are defending the idea
that love, even gagged,
always ends up winning.
#itsverygood 💘❤️🔥🔐
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