Cocoa Butter and Strawberries: Florence Diary

I dream of:

the movement of your fingers,

long and lean,

The clicking of your laptop and

the smell of garlic

was fresh and it sizzled

and browned.

I tasted the fragrance

of desire.

Your skin soft

like strawberries

lingered on my senses.

We walked hand in hand,

shoulder to shoulder,

your cocoa butter scent

[which I laughed at]

clings to your shirts you left in my closet

and even worse

to my sheets.

My emptying room

echoes with your clicking

and the side streets,

[away from all the tourists]

with your only self-proclaimed

Flaw,

Your footsteps.

------

My sleeplessness dreams of:

your cappuccino smiles

and the delight of perfect colored foam

accented by raw cane sugar.

Ours was a brown world

in the middle of pure White

shining Christianity

living,

half dead

on legends of 500 years past.

Black eyes, black hair and bronzed skin

met cocoa butter and

long,

lean preciseness.

Sliding and

Meeting

One in the Other.

Exhausted and refreshed

ready for another cup of

red and sparkling

fresh strawberries

saluting the statue of your favorite junglee

Cellini

in Piazza della Signiorina.

They close at midnight so

we rushed,

Tasting the juice

over the melting,

frozen cream.

-------

I buried my nose in your towel

and leaned out the window

looking at the view you had said

Goodbye

to this morning.

Rude, how it all looked the same.

The shutters pine green

no lights

yet signs of life.

Potted plants and bikes on verandahs.

Dinner time came and went.

Charming in its European setting

charming from my window,

a postcard.

Unrealistic for you and I.

My city after you left

painted from my leaning frame.

-------

After you left my city

I packed up my remnants.

The scents and flavors

[cocoa butter and strawberries]

fit in my suitcase

between my laundry and books.

We had said goodbye

as the train had pulled away.

Your intensity boring holes in

my unwashed eyes and crumpled clothes.

In your mind's eye

I felt

you snapped pictures.

I stood next to Michealangelo's

David,

[every piazza, every street corner, randomly and with determination you had asked,

yaar, David kahan hai? David dekhao, yahan hai, kahan hai?]

I let down my hair.

Its hard to compete with perfection.

A statue, thankfully,

You can't make love to.

[or perhaps You can]

me,

those are other stories

stored in my mind's eye.

My city of two months,

in five days you made your own.

---------

Fingers at my lips,

I kissed you goodbye

and headed back 'home',

the Arno, the leather shops, lovers, gypsies

and the Medici

as my companions.

Later, Ella and Louis

as I wrote,

sang:

the way you wear your hat

the way you sip your tea

the memory of all that

no, no they cant take that away from me.

the way your smile just beams

the way you sing off key

the way you haunt my dreams

no,

They can't take That away from me.