I, of course, was done with you
My poetry, on the other hand
She had, some of her own plans
Her own things to say, her own hurt to bleed
I said okay, I’ll hold you, until we breathe

sing me an aubade
at beginning of aurora
serene and mellifluous
it's like a reverie, a felicity

you soliloquize, so calm
that it could be psithurism
I hear
the beating of your heart,
like the sound of a watch
enwrapped in cotton

a summer's zephyr opens the balcony windows,
so gently
dust particles are dancing
in the morning light
and are slowly falling on the white bedding sheets
do you smell the scent
of our neighbor's citrus trees?
2 hours by car is Venice
and I invite you to stay
in the enchanted and narrow alleys
with me