c’era oceano tra noi;
stelle di collegamento
il nostro cielo. era il luogo dove i
finalmente trovato uno
da qualche parte … restiamo.
come non ho mai avuto bisogno
un altro amante; un impossibile
domanda quando tutto
tenuto le mie mani. baciò
le mie labbra. contro di me, mi sono sentito
come lui è un cerchio
e che l’amore può essere vero.
E io ero … per …
lui. ed era
there was ocean between us;
our heaven. was where i
finally found one
place of residence.
somewhere… we stay.
like i never needed
another lover; an impossible
question when everything
held my hands. he kissed
my lips. against me, i felt
like he is a circle
and that love can be true.
and i was… for…
him. and he was
Alright blog tribe, the countdown begins. Today is day one of my boyfriend’s trip to Italy. I think it’s actually for 38 days, not 37 like I thought. Anything beyond two weeks is too hard for me to plan through.
The neighbors didn’t know if they loved or hated what they were hearing.
But they definitely heard. Because the two of us weren’t quiet.
Like, when I exhaled, the bed frame rattled. And when he whispered, the floor vibrated.
And the entire time, we smoked and drank espresso. There was nothing in the refrigerator, except for dark chocolate (90%!) and champagne. I always kept a fresh glass of water on the night table, the one on my side of the bed.
My spine opened wider every time I twisted toward him.
Everyone talked about us while we spoke Italian to each other; within the August heat of a New York City sun, in the center of midtown Manhattan – not far from Grand Central station – underneath a cloudless sky.
We would speak to each other with our lips touching, a low song that no one else had ever sang to me before.
I only wore dresses. Not very much makeup. Only Chanel lipstick that he picked out for me, and which didn’t usually work out. I ordinarily kissed it off on the first napkin to reach me during one of our days spent walking the city together – before his tongue was in my mouth again.
We talked about family and architecture and traveling, mostly. Sometimes orchestra. Sometimes poetry… (excerpt)
ex·cerpt | noun
1. a short extract from a piece of music or writing.
FollowMeToNYC is a creative processing ground which expresses individual ideas that often change with the tides. Naturally, these ideas do not reflect those of any of my employers, or anyone else you might see me wandering down the street with one day.