So, you've been to Venice,
kissed at sunset on the gondolas,
sipped Merlot at
Ristorante Albergaccio.
You're very well-read,
you know Tennyson and Tolstoy,
Fitzgerald and Faulkner
("Always dream..."
tattooed on your rib).
You lived in museums for a year,
you spoke with Van Gogh,
his ear turned toward you as
you crawled among the Irises.
My dear, it is impossible
that you are a realist.
It is impossible that you
speak not of love.
It is impossible
that you have forgotten.
Jun 25, 2019
Jun 25, 2019 at 6:57 AM UTC
So, you've been to Venice,
kissed at sunset on the gondolas,
sipped Merlot at
Ristorante Albergaccio.
You're very well-read,
you know Tennyson and Tolstoy,
Fitzgerald and Faulkner
("Always dream..."
tattooed on your rib).
You lived in museums for a year,
you spoke with Van Gogh,
his ear turned toward you as
you crawled among the Irises.
My dear, it is impossible
that you are a realist.
It is impossible that you
speak not of love.
It is impossible
that you have forgotten.
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