Published by: Faith Villaluna
Date Published: June 8, 2023
Time Published: 8:07 AM
Category: Poetry
Theme: A Poetry About a Dying Poet's Faded Recollection of His Memories with His Lover in the Summer of 1983
It was Summer of 1983,
Somewhere in Northern Italy.
When he first arrives at the Villa,
Wearing a billowy-bright-blue-shirt
With a wide-open collar, sunglasses
There are chemtrails over the canyon,
With the tea in front of me.
When he gently touched the tapestry on the wall.
And when he caressed the blue banister,
When he came downstairs.
And when he's deeply lost in touch at breakfast,
While bashing into his soft-boiled egg.
"Pass me the newspaper," he said,
The morning after our first night together.
His personality is as big as him,
Towering tall—three-fingertips,
Although he writes like a junior high.
His face, his eyes, his nose
His lips, his hair, and his words.
Honestly,
𝘏𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦.
And he meant no harm,
Like his words like the weight of a feather.
I could even imagine his smell.
Not so comfortable-looking that it feels like home,
But not so uncomfortable that it feels foreign.
A perfect in-between.
Like his thoughts are clear,
Repetitive but bright.
His humor's sharp like a knife,
Witty and dry.
He's always thinking
His knowledge spreading;
Left to right.
My beloved,
He is more than meets the eye.
Apprehension, gratitude, and awe.
Half-covered in specks of green mold;
In a bucket of gold.
He is the lover of my poetry,
Always blaming the news.
And I hated it; when he is—
Trying to be something that he wasn't at all.
A slight undercurrent of insecurities,
In his cool, collected outlook.
I remember when,
I confessed to him in San Clemente,
At the monument of Piave.
And we kissed in that graffitied door,
Under the street lamp in a night out,
And Lord it wasn't right.
Monday morning,
After he walked in.
He begged me to play,
The seven last words of Christ,
And invited me to go swimming.
We met the girls downstairs;
And went to the river with them.
And the way he dismounted his bike at the berm,
On the wall beneath the bookshelf,
When he accidentally made a loud noise
By the door slamming at midnight.
In the afternoon, at Villa Albergoni—
Behind those elegant iron gates,
Everything looks so lush and green.
Lying under the fig trees—naked and raw
Apricots and peaches—cherries and pomegranates
A green sublime.
On the back side of the Villa,
Is a set of stone steps with statues on the gateposts.
Pink velvet sofa at the library;
With books everywhere;
On the white slipcovered chair.
And the painted ceiling,
With all those beautiful chinoiserie-styled paintings.
The large fireplace that is so tall,
I can almost walk inside it.
The Italian case clock—painted blue.
And the kitchen with marble countertops
And a large farm sink!
The upstairs is like the downstairs;
With the center hall in the middle.
With blue tiled bathroom with the stained-glass window
And an old sofa, a lamp shade,
And a chandelier sits in a chair.
Later,
The beach mirrors in his later fascination,
Of the washed-up chiseled statue.
The serenity of the sea—feels like an illusion.
Tired of the salt and sand and sun
Swimming in the blow of salt spray,
Coral and afternoon air.
Waves pulsated within me,
I am formless like made of cement.
The pause-less push and pull,
Sinking beneath the waves,
And be consumed—
Of the ancient current of the ocean traffic lights.
I remember,
When he caught me staring at him,
"What are you doing?"
"Reading..."
"No, you're not!"
And a small smirk appeared on my face.
At some point, I said, "thinking, then."
And he asked me what I'm thinking about—
I smiled and said, "it's private."
Then later at the river while I barrel ahead,
Wearing my billowy-blue-shirt.
When my nose bled and we sat down on the floor,
In the corner of the fridge.
And he grabbed my foot—as I bit my cloth,
But he can't contain himself and kissed my foot.
With such abandon;
And he said, "better now?"
But I could barely walk.
And I remember,
The way he touched the sculpture,
By putting one of his fingers on its lips.
Is the same way he touched mine,
right before we first kissed,
Grass on lips like a kiss.
His lips ache with the memory of the taste
His body speaks to my body,
Inviting me to surrender my vulnerability.
It's so sweet and natural—
𝘖𝘩, 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘺𝘴𝘵𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦
And,
That night when he's drunk,
Wearing the bright-red-shirt that I gave him
His breath smells like cinnamon,
God's grace is nothing but creation.
When he danced without a hint of self-consciousness.
On the balcony while holding a half-smoked cigarette
As the church bells ring and the traffic-sounds
Or,
The morning after midnight.
When we made out in the back of his car—
Fiat one-twenty-eight.
It's the flashbacks of his songs,
And it was the first time he told me he loved me.
When we sat at that playground;
And received a response.
And I'm just jumping all over him,
And hugging him like crazy because,
I don't know how to express my love.
Driven like the living water;
Sprouting like the living trees.
And,
The joy we shared.
From the moment we're on the bus
Leaving Crema, into—
Shouting each other's names.
And climbing, and running toward the waterfall
Into those green mountains with the cascade,
It was just so glorious;
To see us being free and so in love with each other.
The look on his face after I tousled his hair.
He stopped while breathing heavenly from running,
And he looked around,
Curious as to what has and what will happen.
Sweet, spontaneous, and genuine
Like this is perfect happiness,
And I'm taking it all in,
And soaking up as much of it as I can.
As the cardinal hits the window,
Wearing Star of David at the train station.
"I don't want you to go," I said.
He gave me a hug,
And he finally kissed me for the last time,
In one of the bathroom stalls at the station.
As if to comfort me
And he signs off with “later,”
𝘓𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳...
His Americanistic phrase—American-made
"𝘓𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳..."
And when the train left—I looked back very briefly,
He was gone;
Those faded glamour.
Wondering what were his feelings,
But I knew that he was filled with grief.
And I hated thinking of him sad,
Just as I knew he’d hate to see me sad.
And I think in that moment,
If I just begged him to stay,
He would have—
"𝘏𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘷𝘦..."
If only I chose to, "speak,"
And brave enough to ask sooner...
In the dead of winter with all the windows closed.
And there I sat down,
Crying quietly in front of the fireplace.
Looking into the loud, crackling, and snapping fireplace
—In the dining room
Thinking about our poignant love story,
and all the heartbreak that goes with it
Observing our orange blaze
Highlights on the depths of my face
The wood was fragile—like me—and green
I knew it was the end;
And I just get lost in the slowness of it all.
It sits, and breathes, and almost tempts me
The nothingness I felt,
Because to feel nothing,
so as to not feel anything is a waste!
He reminded me of the summer,
When we were young and wild, and free.
It's an unbearable divine trauma.
Like everything will not be fine,
Like the love, like the memory, like the time itself.
And I can't sleep at home tonight,
Because a part of me still feels I am him.
When I close my eyes and his touch is right there;
The exact familiarity.
Falling so carelessly,
In love with a man who only now,
considers me a fraction of his past.
And I wanted to visit everywhere we used to go,
In hopes to catch a glimpse of him.
𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘸𝘦 𝘴𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘥;
In ten different places.
The memories of us flood me,
Remembering his body being tangled between my sheets,
On the first morning we met.
The streets we roamed alone at night,
And the train where he departed from me.
I am now his past and a phone call,
And I wanted to wash away the memories,
And bury that summer,
As they no longer serve me.
"𝘓𝘢𝘵𝘦𝘳..."
The feelings are so deep
And it doesn’t lose anything.
My body aches of sadness
And regret for a love I never knew.
My brain is filled with thoughts of him,
I cried, and I cried, and I cried
I was devastated for the both of us.
The sense of pain, loss, and unfairness is all there.
It's poetry in motion; every scene on amphetamines
My eyes devour each moment wanting for more.
The need to understand, and deliberate,
And deconstruct, and dissect
Turning the words over and over again,
Repeatedly memorizing
Pause-rewind-replay-rewind-replay
a desperate sigh;
Of how do I get over him.
I like to think I know everything,
And I think I know nothing at all.
The truth is somewhere in between
But this much I know,
I don't know who he is yet,
All I know is—
I love him more than anything,
He is everything;
𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨...
"I remember everything..."
And I hope he remembers everything,
𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨...
It was meant to be forever.
But the realization.
That he was no longer there.
That he was no longer here...
I realized that I am no longer him.
And that I was no longer in the—
𝘚𝘶𝘮𝘮𝘦𝘳 𝘰𝘧 1983.
IMAGE SOURCE: https://www.beyazperde.com/haberler/filmler/haberler-93140/
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