wet green moss and winter calves,
sly smiles and limoncello laughs;
carbonara grins and giggly eyes,
tiny cigarettes and wide open skies;
mournful ruins and teasing remarks,
sneezes in naples but bright roman sparks;
sleepy bus journeys and the back of your head,
etruscan bronze and paintings of bread;
late night laundry thinking of you,
heart rate climbing as you came into view;
you hear my bad puns and i love your low chuckle,
you grin at me and my walls unbuckle;
my stammering voice and your comforting gaze,
i will remember this time until the end of our days.

i am sitting on the edge of the mountain-top town
on the exact other side of the world;
my arrival has been one long daydream;
i watch the skyline distort itself
and pulse with the sharp winter morning,
as enormous green mountains arch their spines
into the tender caress of the cloudless sky.

feet planted in the dirt,
the painter sways on the edge of the hill
wild ferns curling around his thighs
and pollen dusting his collarbone.
a canvas, as pale as his wifebeater,
is slotted onto the creaking easel.
the air is thick with sunshine
and it drips from his temple
before sliding down his shoulders.
birds whistle and swoop,
the thrum of the trees behind him
hum in appreciation and contentment.
the sweet wind is warm on the back of his neck,
and he departs with tinges of yellow behind his ear.

i have a thin drop of water
between my thumb and index finger
that i play with when it rains;
you leap through the warmth
that comes with your tall summers;
everywhere i look, everyone is the same,
moving, writhing in the heat.
i am jealous. i am still. i am cold.
i am here,
in my southern winter,
my fever of snow.

i think it would be nice to have a moment
perhaps in the late afternoon
where i could lay myself across the grass
and our shoulders could bump together
like the branches above
and the breeze could smooth us into the earth
with you at my side
i think it would be nice

the writer, the renowned historian,
who was admired by the young man from the southern valley,
does not know he will not survive the reaping.
this young man, he begs the writer,
'please, carve me into your hands, into your fingers,
into your fingernail,'
the writer looks down at his letter, and smiles,
'young chickpea,' he croons,
'you have yet to realise,
that it is i that shall be buried in yours.'