it was the first time we met; i was freshly 18.
and that Fiorentino barbuto--i guessed aloud that he was 24.
and he laughed at me, but softly.

i got into this italian's car unquestioningly,
the 'plan A' having been compromised.
Whitney Houston in my ears;
his hand drifting over my thigh;
the gold bracelet on his wrist.

desolate hilltop, well outside city center.
it was nighttime. so many twigs and leaves;
bottle of red;
political conversation;
sitting on two tree stumps;
trying to speak spanish;
city below.

we stood up.
his left hand took me; i bet he bruised me somewhere.
(i had shaved all over, thank god)

he caressed my face with his right,
his thumb dragging against my jaw
as he surely longed for someone who had left,
and i longed for the one i was yet to meet.
i saw the golden lights through my eyes pressed shut.