scribble poems on the streets of Paris,
smudge the bitterest tears
on the page
as they flow down your face.

eyelids closed, slowly
lift up your head
under the sweeping blue of Porto,
now time to open,
reach out your hand
to the man beside you.

visit a guy in Krakow
who opened your heart once,
as he dances,
you learn the rhythm too, the soul
of your two new lives
you hold hands and cry,
grateful in the history of it all.

go out for a gelato,
go out alone anyway
in your winter clothes in Bergamo,
pass by the trattoria
where, together you had pizza,
in between flashes of kisses,
go out for a gelato, and lust on these
frozen flavors of summer.

you had been here before
pedaling around
the off-white village of Gordes,
there’s a couple,
they show you mountains, mountains
of sweet victories and hardships
to contemplate,
of waiting time and miracles
to conquer,
as you climb to where
you have never been before.