I Write Poetry
We call it Tuscany,
our code word
for that secret place
you and I go.
We’ve never been to Italy
yet, we know the smells
and recognize the sounds
from the street.
You rise, and close the shutters
against the world, because if we can
hear the baker hawking his biscotti
from the pavement below,
then unsuspecting tourists
strolling across the cobblestones
can surely hear me
in our unguarded moments
as you hold me in just that way
And I cry out, as you love me to,
And, together we watch as the flowers
that line the veranda, burst into bloom
kissed, christened and debauched by you.
our code word
for that secret place
you and I go.
We’ve never been to Italy
yet, we know the smells
and recognize the sounds
from the street.
You rise, and close the shutters
against the world, because if we can
hear the baker hawking his biscotti
from the pavement below,
then unsuspecting tourists
strolling across the cobblestones
can surely hear me
in our unguarded moments
as you hold me in just that way
And I cry out, as you love me to,
And, together we watch as the flowers
that line the veranda, burst into bloom
kissed, christened and debauched by you.
By:
WindSylph
Age:
41-45
,
Female
