back to when you sat in the brilliant sunshine in the middle of a garden in the middle of spain. hot, dusty, full of mischievous birds and gardeners…
close your eyes and feel that moment. perfect. gorgeous.
~~~
open the shutters and weep. at how you finally got here. how you found beauty…and it spoke italian. mornings filled with bright, and green, and sharp sun cutting into red tile and marble. duck into a cafe for a cafe au lait and croissant, feel the sticky drip of mint gelato on your fingers sitting by the ponte vecchio…
~~~
long slow walk through trinity…st stephen’s green, the long slow ride from lucan to the city, to hear about Godot, and listen to the bodhran, the pipes, and the charming song, drink that dark pint and dream about how it’d be if he were here with you…
~~~
soon. past summer heartache and sweat, you’ll fly to the city of lights and feel for hemingway’s ghost, find that infamous smile, and ghosts of great loves walking along the seine…
~~~
it would never be if you were here with me. i’d be small and closed and done. no matter how much i think i wouldn’t…and that is the real of the matter. plain simple fact. okay.
