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.