Salvatore lives in his shell made of narrow and colorful alleys, uneven cobblestones,
rides without helmets, with slippers on old scooters,
succulent peaches picked from heavy branches,
elderly people on plastic chairs reading the newspaper,
spaghetti marinara and smoked sardines.
Salvatore's kisses taste like sand and nostalgia.
They are passionate and overbearing like waves,
caresses of salty, rough, lips, burning like the sun.
They are kisses of melon ice cream and chopped tobacco,
quick and playful dance steps, in crowded and singing squares.
Salvatore's kisses remind me of a summer where time stopped
wedged between pastel-colored plaster and oleanders stuffed in Marlboro packets.
Salvatore's kisses remind me of a man who's too alive
to share with me more than one fleeting and scorching summer,
but kind enough to make my skin tan a little.
YOU ARE READING
mausoleo d'amori
Poetryif i had a nickel i would use it to birbe my way out of 'creative writing 12' exams.
