[Verse 1 – bedtime] Midnight kitchen, dirty tiles, kettle humming, yellow light, pour the milk into a mug, little island in the night. Phone face down to kill the glow, try to do what child-me knows, warm white ocean, steady hands, maybe this time I’ll just rest. Sip of comfort, eyes half–closed, let the blanket take control, fade to black and sugar steam, falling back into a dream. [Chorus 1] Latte marcio, quiet violence, sweet on top and rot beneath, I just want a night of silence, but my past won’t let me sleep. [Verse 2 – dream: happy childhood → flip] Sunlight on a kitchen floor, cereal boxes, cartoon roar, tiny hands around a cup, mother’s voice is soft enough. Chocolate moustache, plastic spoon, sugar galaxies at noon, someone laughs and lifts me high, says, “You’ll be someone, just you try.” Then the colour starts to fade, shadows stretch across the frame, same old kitchen, different tone, screaming through the telephone. Glass is breaking, doors are slammed, father’s knuckles, mother’s hands, all the words they throw like knives, stick in this small skull for life. [Pre-Chorus 2] In the corner, under table, little heart is beating cables, praying milk will block the sound, but the shouting shakes the ground. [Chorus 2] Latte marcio, stolen cradle, sugar skin with poison core, every time I reached for comfort I got bruises, nothing more. [Verse 3 – false wake / second dream: adult life] Jolt awake in bigger bed, ring on finger, pounding head, different ceiling, same old crack, echoes crawling up my back. Someone pacing down the hall, heavy footsteps, curtain call, different mouth, same poisoned line, “I’m the fuck-up every time.” Another plate explodes like glass, different monster, same old mask, marriage just a longer version of the childhood re–immersion. Reach for comfort by the sink, pour a glass of something pink, take a sip to calm the shaking— taste of mould and metal flaking. [Pre-Chorus 3] I spit it out but it won’t go, rotten milk between my teeth, realise with a crawling horror I am still stuck in the dream. [Chorus 3 – in–dream panic] Latte marcio, layered hells, layers stacked beneath my feet, every “this time I woke up” is another trick of sleep. [Verse 4 – real wake] Then I wake for real, I think, heart like drum on rusted zinc, teeth are grinding, jaw is sore, sweat is pooling on the floor. Room is quiet, house is still, there’s the window on the sill, night outside like open mouth, waiting patient, pointing down. Kettle cold and mug half–clean, there’s no cocoa, no ice cream, just the taste of bitter tongue, and a life that came out wrong. [Pre-Chorus 4 – worst nightmare] This is not a movie twist, this is just the life I live, I grew up and built a sequel to the shit I once survived. All the dreams of “I’ll be someone” rotted somewhere out of sight, now I’m just a tired extra in a joke I didn’t write. [Bridge – at the window] Open window, attic air, rooftops leaning into stare, empty street and tiny people, tiny lights and tiny cares. For a second, I lean forward, let the wind erase the frame, think of how it’d all fall silent if I simply left the game. Nothing holy, nothing grand, just one less fucked-up demand, one less heart that won’t stop looping old recordings in its head. [Drop to silence – then vibration] [Verse 5 – message] Phone starts buzzing by the sink, tiny tremor, tiny blink, same device that feeds my poison throws a rope across the void. Notification on the glass, tiny speech bubble of gas, just a stranger from a thread typing, “Hey, you still in bed?” “You okay? That post last night hit a little too damn right, I’ve been having stupid nightmares, couldn’t get you off my mind.” [Chorus 4 – soft] Latte marcio, rotten latte, milk and nightmares, same old sea, but your message cuts the darkness like a match struck next to me. Latte marcio, rotten latte, guess I’m still a fucking mess, but before I step outside, I can answer this one text. [Outro] So I close the attic window, leave the night to be alone, take the cold mug from the counter, let the past stay on its throne. Type a stupid, simple answer, “Yeah, I’m here, how ’bout you?”, and the worst of all my nightmares loosens just a notch or two. Latte marcio, rotten latte, nothing sweet can cleanse it clean, but for one more haunted evening I’ll stay here and let you ping.
