I. Café
the waiter has the kindest eyes
when he goes home after his shift he probably finds coffee beans tucked into his pockets
the whirring of the machine doesn't faze him as it did when he first started
he has become accustomed to the grooves of wood and the abstract art above the bar
he glances at the clock every hour on the hour, counting down the minutes until he is released
catching a glimpse of his face in the mirror is a reminder he exists
every time I see myself in it, my eyes disappear from reflection
I wish I spoke Portuguese – these tourists behind me make me embarrassed to be English:
man, loudly: She wants ORANGE JUICE!
waiter nods – such patience
for a moment I think of what it would be like to go downstairs to the restaurant
past the mahogany wood and chessboard floor
and **** on one of the tables
the next patrons would have no idea they were eating off of passion and stunted breath
“Enjoy: homesickness tossed with overwhelming contentment and a dressing of lust.”
I could drink every bottle of Campari, Bacardi and Jameson lining the wall and I still wouldn't have the courage to tell him how kind I think his eyes are
I really want him to drape me over the golden chandelier so I can be reminded of what it feels like to have an all-seeing eye
he has such routine with the way he places sugar packets on plates and lays them down for sleep-deprived and cranky patrons
maybe I should've ordered something
we should have an object at each corner of the octagon table – a spell, a hex
I need to be fed pastries to continue breathing
I would like for him to walk me home
it's just around the corner and I know its name and number are marked on the street but I have a terrible sense of direction
one false turn and I may end up in the water
and I won't ever see the waiter’s kind eyes again.

II. Ruins
if you held me the way you held that camera I'd melt into an exalted sigh
you told me you only take pictures of things you love but you never took any of me
I mean, I know the height and decomposition of this building is breathtaking but I could give you some air if you kissed me by the rusted trellis
your orange sunglasses look ridiculous
I would rather drape you in a cloak, like the Statue of St. John Nepomucene
two bells, like us, drone
as you speak, the sound of the Chinese couple is louder:
“We should go into this room… filled with artefacts…”
“No, here, let's stay…”
******* for saying you're leaving.
I have the urge to pound you with one of those rocks on a ledge so you are trapped here
“Can you imagine this place filled with people?”
you wouldn't belong anyway
you have no affinity for red tiles scattered amongst grey
or the all-encompassing silence of the venue
there is a concrete slab on the left where I could lay you down and take off those glasses
and pour myself into you
so you would take pictures of me
so you wouldn't move to New York
I can't fathom people filling this place
because it should really house two souls instead.

III. Mirador
the number on the floor by the fountain is the amount of times I've said no to you while standing out here
I'll tag another 0 on, just to be safe
the red roofs look like my skin after I've sat all day at the beach at Sperlonga
you almost drowned
your footsteps on the gravel are ominous and even when I look through the telescope I can't see you
I pick a point on the horizon – the blue cubist building; the odd one out – and stare blankly
that guitarist playing “Oh Darling” reminds me of the first time you called me that and I want to smash it so violently
I find myself staring at the trio of scruffy young bearded men instead of you
“What are you saying?! It was at least this big…” one of them says.
he looks like you but the you before you moved to New York
you lean on the upside down heart iron fence and say for the 15th time that you still love me
I'm pushing you over the fence now onto the path below
the garden will still look lovely after you fall
instead I pick another building – pink with white windows and a black roof – and stare
it blinks its eyes and speaks: “Leave.”
you're in the middle of saying how much you loved the fish last night and I break:
“I'm gone.”