American Girl in Italy

How does the blue mold get in Gorgonzola? Have you ever heard the rocks at Castiglioncello sing and why do writers always seek solace in Italy? Time for me to find the answers to these and see, if in doing so, I also find my home.

My Photo
Name:
Location: Rome, RM, Italy

i am actually the lost royal heir to the small kingdom of Birundi...having been secreted away by my wet nurse when mean overlords arrived turning our little known, yet terribly chic fiefdom into a nasty republic. now my people sit glued with their eyes glazed.....dreaming of distant IRA's and stock options, having long forgotten the taste of sweet green olive oil and the scent of rosemary.

23 February 2006

(PS:::Its about a guitar)

A new way to love you.

It happened distantly,

As I watched the way you tenderly touched her,

eyes closed,

passionate.

You have held me that way.

Leaving me weak at the knees

for the love of you.

Breathless in a room full of air.

And now,

Trembling,

Helpless,

I cannot look away.

I know those hands.

Those strong fingers,

Have felt them leave deep impressions

traveling along my body

in the same way

you now caress her spine.

Gentle, guiding,

sweet, yet controlled.

I sense that she moves you,

That in her, you have tasted something wonderful

something perhaps i can never give you.

I promised myself

That I would never share the man I love

with another woman.

Yet here I stand.

and seeing you, banks my own fire.

Your passion for her

stirs me,

sets me to simmer.

in spite of myself.

I watch you dance, kiss.

in circles and down long winding passages

listening silently as her voice rings out,

First happy, then soulful, then loving.

And in that moment,

When you are oblivious to all else

I wish, even if only for a second or two

that it was me you held

Instead of her.

For I will always crave your arms,

wrapped around my waist

in the same way

you lean into her now.

framing the hourglass of her hips.

Later that evening,

watching smoky tendrils

drift towards the ceiling,

spent in our lovemaking,

I will think of her.

And I will remember the passion she brings to you,

Knowing the flames she stokes

can only be quenched with my love.

And as I drift gently to sleep,

It is me and not you

That whispers her name.

“Renata”.

1 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

bellissima poesia, quanta passione percepisco.
hey ma c'è proprio da esser gelosi di una chitarra... :-)

May 13, 2006 10:04 PM  

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