I love you too.
Have I ever told you that before? Love late, never revealed, always intuited. The recognition of love after it is over, or while it is in progress but no one talks about it. You haven't told me yet that you love me? Well I love you too. Revenge on the 'moi non plus' of gainsbourghiana memory through a response to the innocent jingoism of an unforgettable Alberto Lupo. No longer an 'me too' to seal a physical superiority and absence of feeling, but an unsolicited 'me too', kept silent out of stupid modesty or useless shame. An 'me too' that relaunches a love, no matter if already dead for years, a missed date repaired in extremis. I loved you so much I didn't have the strength to tell you, didn't you tell me because you didn't really love me? I love you too, amor ch'a nullo amato amar perdona, if in some instant you loved me, well for that instant I tell you that now I love you too, and perhaps even then, but it no longer matters, since it is now that I reciprocate what one day perhaps there was. What certainly should have been there.
Marco Ongaro
