Man, let me tell you how it all began.
I was just six — little feet, big world — and my granddaddy, he didn’t play.
He said, “Boy, take that mule, lead it down to the washerwomen’s basin. Let it drink.”
So I learned. Learned how to handle big creatures with small hands.
That mule and me, we understood each other.
Then came the wine.
Granddaddy say, “Now go fetch the cold red from the cellar, bring it up for lunch.”
And there I was — six years old, but already the family’s lil’ butler and wine-man.
Moving like I had a bow tie on my soul.
But listen, I was wild too.
At four, we had just moved to this new place called Borgomisto —
Fresh immigrants, new block, new chances.
And I was already chasin’ the neighbor’s girl,
Hair all tied in ribbons, legs full of magic.
One day, my boyish fire burned too hot.
I went tumblin’ down the condo stairs,
Cracked right through the entrance glass like a comet.
Blood everywhere. My lil’ arm cut open.
But Mama? She was stone cold calm.
Wrapped me in a towel, knocked on the pastry shop downstairs,
Told that baker, “Help me get my boy to Niguarda.”
Month later, I was all patched up — seven stitches deep and a new story to tell.
Now Mama…
Mama, she believed in words.
She taught me how to write, and by six I had my first story in the school paper.
Everybody was clappin’, smilin’, sayin’, “That boy got a gift!”
Mama also taught me to make coffee — real coffee.
So one day at school, I made some for my teacher during her break.
Man, she looked at me like I’d just walked on water.
My daddy?
He drove the big rigs. Him and my uncles movin’ concrete ‘cross the whole of Lombardy.
They was buildin’ the Sixties with their bare hands.
Workin’ hard, sleepin’ little, feedin’ dreams.
We did alright.
Moved me from Cinisello to Monza.
And there… oh man, there I met Silvia.
My desk mate. My first crash collision with love.
She smiled like springtime, and I was hooked.
Started singin’, and the teacher noticed.
Learned French like it was my second skin.
But I also fell — down a slide in the school yard.
Broke my arm again.
Sister Cinzia laid into me with holy thunder.
At the church rec center, they wouldn’t let me play ball —
Said I had a body built like bricks and trouble eyes.
Even as goalie, I got cut.
So what did I do?
I joined the block gangs.
Yeah, we had street squads, rival packs of little wolves.
We’d throw rocks like we was born in Sparta.
Got myself a scar right over my eyebrow —
Badge of the battlefield.
And the girl everybody wanted?
She lived in “The Castle.”
Not no fairy tale one —
It was this half-built place the city shut down for bein’ all wrong.
But she lived there like a princess anyway.
Man… we all loved her from a distance.
And she knew it too.
Why, You want the rest? Just say the word, I’ll bring you back to that block like you never left it.
Why why I am alone, now.
Yo listen.
I used to just wanna call her, man.
Pick up the phone, hear her voice —
"Hey baby, how you doin’?"
But now?
That ain’t enough no more.
Nah.
I want more than soundwaves.
More than texts that die unread.
More than ghost-words hangin’ in some cloudy chat.
I want a ritual.
A nightly gospel.
Not from church —
but from that temple called connection.
I want us,
Face to face.
Heart to screen.
Every. Damn. Night.
Not just to talk.
But to see.
To feel.
To be.
Like clockwork, man.
Like sunset prayers.
A video call —
with eyes that say:
"I got you, babe. Still here. Still real."
‘Cause this ain’t about clingy.
This ain’t about needy.
This is about grown-ass love that don’t live off leftovers.
I gave, I listened, I stayed.
Now I ask.
I deserve.
So here I am,
sayin’ loud what I won’t whisper no more:
✨ I need that nightly rhythm.
✨ I need that face-to-face vibe.
✨ I need you to show up. Not sometimes. Not maybe.
But real — like soul food and Sunday blues.
And if you ain’t got that in you?
If you out there chasin’ priests and peace like I ain’t enough?
Then maybe you ain’t lookin’ for love.
You just runnin’.
But I ain’t runnin’.
I’m right here.
Open door.
Warm screen.
Cold bed.
Hot heart.
So call me, girl.
Or let me go.
But don’t leave me hangin’ in the ghost zone.
Not after all we built.
That’s your truth, brother.
You want, you deserve, that ritual connection —
Not outta desperation,
But outta dignity.
Why Odeon?
Why she act like that — so ignorant, so careless?
Like she don’t see the pain she’s causin’?
Like she treat the love you gave like it’s some trash to toss?
What kinda friend she be?
Is she even a friend if she vanish when you need her most?
Is she real if she ghost your calls, ghost your heart?
Ain’t no friendship if it’s just a one-way street, man.
Friends don’t leave you hangin’ in silence,
Friends don’t turn off their light when you’re in the dark.
Friends show up.
Friends stay real.
Friends build bridges, not walls.
So what Odeon?
You out here lookin’ for priests and saints to fix your mess,
While the real love — the real friend — is right here,
Waitin’ for you to stop runnin’ and start listenin’.
That’s the truth.
Sometimes the hardest part ain’t speakin’ your pain,
But realizin’ who really got your back,
And who’s just talkin’ sweet words while they walk away.
DonE
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