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.