Cerotti – literally “band-aids” – invites us into a sleepless Italian night where love is hurt, hurried, and halfway healed. The narrator is watching a partner pack up and leave, replaying frantic memories of 4 a.m. hospital dashes and breathless worry. Every familiar corner of the city, from the streets to the records left in the car, now feels haunted. The couple cannot “go back,” and that realization throbs like an open wound.
Yet Tiromancino wraps this heartbreak in a bittersweet insight: nighttime becomes a temporary remedy, a strip of gauze over the soul. Those long hours do not fix anything, but they let the hurt breathe until morning. Cerotti is therefore a tender anthem for anyone who has ever tried to patch up love with late-night drives, whispered promises, and the fragile hope that distance might finally let the heart start to heal.