The morning is a faraway thing

When I think of you at sunrise

you are in French champs de lavende.

I imagine t'embrasser -

we do so lightly, a peck on each cheek.

It’s sweet, romantic, PG13.

As the clock strikes twelve, we are in Berlin again.

Du, du bist… I struggle to relax

my stiff awkward shoulders.

Through shallow breaths

my words dry up

on my own toneless tongue

like Sylvia Plath

ich ich ich ich.

The words itch.

In the evening, you give me un mazzo di rose.

Like the dotted rhythm of a heartbeat,

you leave me wet with anticipation.

Mi amore, return to me,

with an open shirt and arms outstretched

and be your enchanting self

on the southern Sicilian coast.

En la noche, my body once more thinks for my brain

and we dance, dance, dance con passion.

I forget all restraint.

My skin bubbles in the Valencian heat.

For us, life is easy, it is a fiesta -

the morning is a faraway thing.