With the dawn,
Serenaded by your dreams,
The sky torn,
Bleeding the lenore rays of Lord Apollo,
Blessing our bare bodies,
The bodies of lorn lovers from Rome.
My eyes blinded by the reflection of French glass windows,
I witnessed your wrinkled, glistened face,
Telling me stories of war, love, and fight for your liberation.
The crack of dawn,
And the day you were born
Time to visit our vigils!
I showered as the guilt, dirt distilled.
Dearth of emotions let me reminisce about our first vigil!
We washed our souls from night we met at the piazza,
An old drunken wise soul you were,
And, I, a young, amateur poet.
I wore you after tearing myself from you,
Like a page from my beloved diary, you.
You asked me what I wanted to become,
I said a tailor,
Sewing tattered hearts with words with a broken me with every stitch.
Influx of emotions,
Us no rationals,
Kissed against the church wall;
with the commencement of Sunday mass,
Our second vigil.
At the dusk,
We met at the Piazza Campo de’ Fiori,
With people, poems, and busks.
Filled us with a Chardonnay and Dante’s La Vita Nuova,
Your gaze pierced into me;
Like Dante’s pen passionately penning his love for Beatrice,
Love, that does not suffice for this lifetime.
I sat there today with the excerpt of Dante in my diary,
The wind bussing me with the fragrance from you that I wore today,
To our third Vigil.
For our last vigil,
I came to you,
In the grass and amidst the dew.
Under the nest of the stars.
I lit the cigars and kissed on the forehead of your tombstone etched “Old Lover”.
Today, I celebrate you and mourn us.