Some days are black, some white, too many just gray. But Thursdays are always a little bit of green and brown.
We go to a concert. Vivaldi. The Piazza San Marco flooded by tourists. It is said that the city is sinking. But it has sunk a long time ago. Flooded with dreams of hope, of white socks with brown sandals.
I sink in your pale green chiffon evening dress. You wear it for me, you say And you wear it with the same ease with which you carry the day in your eyes. Wishing well. Hundreds of requests on the ground. Some bright, fresh, embossed, patina other, but not one forgotten. Let us fly
, you say, and you know that I can not fly. Not like you spread your arms, eyes wide open. A cool wind in your hair picks, small speckles blowing across my neck.
I can smell your thoughts. An endless meadow full of arnica, to the summer solstice dewy in the morning. Bare feet in the grass, your head in my elbow. You are earth and water, hold a pebble in your hand. Sanded smooth, warm from thy breath.
I hold my breath as long as possible in order not to blow your mind away. And you smile.
Only twenty-five minutes, I say, after looking at the long queue at the entrance of the Ateneo di San Basso, and my watch. You take my hand, I draw the clock on your wrist and throw it in the midst of a flock of pigeons.
I'll give you a thousand times twenty-five minutes you whisper, and I lose contact with the floor.
you want to eat ice cream. The thought of 'The Four Seasons' has made you hungry, you say, with conviction, and you know how much I hate it when you're stupid IMAGES. You ignore my eye rolling and my objections, that the cards expire. Vivaldi has been played for 300 years and he will also next week yet, but you definitely need the ice immediately.
through the middle of the crowd you lead me, as if it were not there and I see that you are not wearing shoes, long under your dress. Forget, you say, shrug.
We find a free table in a gelateria on the other end of the square. Pull your fingernails bright in the brown furrows of my forearm. You plant your dreams under my skin. Let us stay here for a while, take a break. At least until the carnival.
The waiter is waiting for our order. Your gaze is directed only at me. For a long time. Sucks me. Going back to the hotel! you say, and I laugh.
You open the curtains and the large casement window can be, the night into our room. The city is wide awake, just like you want to sleep thou no more, say you miss, no matter how small piece of life. Careless
you throw your dress on the floor. Let your body sink into the fabric gräsernen. Vastness and the smell of arnica.
The Green has become deeper. Brown runs the day between my fingers through it. Heavy and wet a little. Darker than last week. It rained on Wednesday.
We go to a concert. Vivaldi. The Piazza San Marco flooded by tourists. It is said that the city is sinking. But it has sunk a long time ago. Flooded with dreams of hope, of white socks with brown sandals.
I sink in your pale green chiffon evening dress. You wear it for me, you say And you wear it with the same ease with which you carry the day in your eyes. Wishing well. Hundreds of requests on the ground. Some bright, fresh, embossed, patina other, but not one forgotten. Let us fly
, you say, and you know that I can not fly. Not like you spread your arms, eyes wide open. A cool wind in your hair picks, small speckles blowing across my neck.
I can smell your thoughts. An endless meadow full of arnica, to the summer solstice dewy in the morning. Bare feet in the grass, your head in my elbow. You are earth and water, hold a pebble in your hand. Sanded smooth, warm from thy breath.
I hold my breath as long as possible in order not to blow your mind away. And you smile.
Only twenty-five minutes, I say, after looking at the long queue at the entrance of the Ateneo di San Basso, and my watch. You take my hand, I draw the clock on your wrist and throw it in the midst of a flock of pigeons.
I'll give you a thousand times twenty-five minutes you whisper, and I lose contact with the floor.
you want to eat ice cream. The thought of 'The Four Seasons' has made you hungry, you say, with conviction, and you know how much I hate it when you're stupid IMAGES. You ignore my eye rolling and my objections, that the cards expire. Vivaldi has been played for 300 years and he will also next week yet, but you definitely need the ice immediately.
through the middle of the crowd you lead me, as if it were not there and I see that you are not wearing shoes, long under your dress. Forget, you say, shrug.
We find a free table in a gelateria on the other end of the square. Pull your fingernails bright in the brown furrows of my forearm. You plant your dreams under my skin. Let us stay here for a while, take a break. At least until the carnival.
The waiter is waiting for our order. Your gaze is directed only at me. For a long time. Sucks me. Going back to the hotel! you say, and I laugh.
You open the curtains and the large casement window can be, the night into our room. The city is wide awake, just like you want to sleep thou no more, say you miss, no matter how small piece of life. Careless
you throw your dress on the floor. Let your body sink into the fabric gräsernen. Vastness and the smell of arnica.
The Green has become deeper. Brown runs the day between my fingers through it. Heavy and wet a little. Darker than last week. It rained on Wednesday.
From: Now. - Papers on Antho? - Of course! - Prize for Literature
© Simone wedge
© Simone wedge
0 comments:
Post a Comment