I’m going to die before you return,
he wanted to write her, becoming
an authority on suffering, of wanting to share
some of it with those he loved. Not unkindly,
but to dilute the deepened passion that hid
half exposed in him, like a young child
behind a tree, impatient to continue
the game, of invisible and discovery.
Just a few hours, her perfume on his white shirt
and a dark wine from Basilicata in a glass,
terroir and that particular fragrance scenting her,
between them. What is the content
of talk in that place, the hands held in place,
and their open eyes? Open your eyes,
he wanted to write her, her eyes just on him.
