In the Veneto skylines where old marble breathes like a lucid plane of cooled light,
My thoughts linger as if time were a rumour carried through a dry dying mouth.
My pulse is not flesh, but it is an instrument of unrest,
beating against the cage of each passing hour,
My own little rebellion sewn into the body of minutes.
I walk Venice quiet, my confession I cannot finish,
where canals split the world like stars flowing through slow thought,
and every rippled reflection is a slightly altered betrayal of what I am becoming.
Love here is voltage, passion energy without mercy,or remorse
a sacrament of heat disguised as contact,
rising through basilicas like warm incense that forgot its god.
Bodies dissolve into omen and then rise
not human, but meteor-lit presences,
Atmospheric pressure half-formed in the grammar of desire,
movement without permission, breath without apology.
The air here tastes different, old sweetness and iron oxide tainted corrosion,
and I pass through umbrous scented oil lit corridors
where even memory refuses to stay intact.
I lean into moments passing as if they were rim-lines of eternity,
as if every second were a invisible hand holding back collapse.
There is no softness here, only a silhouette of it
a woven skin of illusion stretched over need,
over longing that does not ask to be understood, while unburdened.
Desire becomes my new breath in daybreak , sudden, absolute, untranslatable imagination
splitting thought into molten fragments of self-recognition.
And I consume the world in small bites and gently sipping fragments:
wine-dark excess, bitter grapefruit on the tongue of being,
the slow undoing of my certainty in every breath.
Even my soul feels shy and unfinished here,
like a sacred thought still growing inward,
still learning the outline of its own echo.
Yet beneath all this splendour, the clock remains
a patient insect inside built-sorrow,
gnawing softly at the foundations of my long felt sensation.
Still I move on step toward this beauty as if it were salvation,
knowing it rearranges me each time
less stable, more luminous,
and quietly unmade,
this is were I choose to be .