Our eternal love

started to blow and then it --


flew out of the bed.

The autumn rain is falling
    Like teardrops from mine eyes;
I cannot help recalling
    With sobs and lingering sighs
                    My Fugliana.

The days, returning never,
    The golden days of yore,
Were days that lived forever,
    Yet gone forevermore
                    Is Fugliana.

With rue my heart is laden;
    L'amour peut être amer.
Nor any rose-lipt maiden
    Was e'er so fair as fair
                    Fair Fugliana.

My dearest angel,
How you’ve grown
From a bean into a flower
I stand in awe of your bloom.

My dearest angel,
The light that bled the dark
Took away my demons,
The moment I felt your heart.

You are the spark that lit the lantern
For me to walk to guide you through,
And every thing I am I owe to you.

My dearest angel,
You are the pride of my soul,
The reason for living when none other is given,
I see you and find my control.

You are seasons and holidays
You are lemonade and summer parades
Fireworks and museums displays
All of me written within you tattooed on your face
When you smile I see myself,
My dearest angel.

When it just feels like one year
But 17 has gone and come,
From the morning I felt your eyes shoot open
I spent every day cautiously hoping—
I won’t ***** it up, and lose my focus
To give you everything I never,
Well I guess I’ll never—
Know if you could ever
Forgive if I have ever let you down.

So sing a prayer for me,
Let me see you open a gift
Like the one you have given
And know that I’ll be there wishing,
As the candles go out,
Please let me steal one more moment,
To savor the time.

My dearest angel of mine.

Sicilian:
Àncilu miu cchiù caru,
Comu criscìsti
Di na fava in ciuri
Sugnu ammiratu dâ to fiuritura.

Àncilu miu cchiù caru,
La luci ca sanguinava lu scuru
Purtava li me dimoni,
Lu mumentu ca sintìa lu to cori.

Tu sì la scintidda ca addumau la lanterna
Pi mia a caminari pi guidarivi,
E ogni cosa ca sugnu ti lu devu.

Àncilu miu cchiù caru,
Tu si l’orgogliu di l’anima mia,
La raggiuni di vìviri quannu n'àutra nun è data,
Ti vìdu e attruvu lu me cuntrollu.

Siti staggiuni e festi
Tu siti limunata e sfilati estivi
Mostra di fochi d'artificiu e musei
Tuttu di mia scrittu dintra di te tatuatu ntâ to facci
Quannu surridi mi vìdu,
Lu me cchiù caru àngiulu.

Quannu pari sulu n'annu
Ma 17 ha jutu e vinutu,
Di la matina sintìa l'occhi ca s'aprìanu
Passava ogni jornu cu cautela spirannu...
Non lu ruvinu e pirdu la cuncintrazzioni
Pi dariti tuttu chiddu ca mai,
Ebbè, penzu ca non lu fazzu mai...
Sapìri si putissi mai
Scusa si ti haiu mai delusu.

Dunca canta pri mia na prighera,
Lassami vidiri grapiri nu rigalu
Comu a chidda ca hai datu
E sapi ca ci sugnu vulennu,
Comu s'astutanu li cannili,
Ti pregu lassami arrubbari n'autru mumentu,
Pi gustarisi lu tempu.

Lu me cchiù caru àngiulu meu.

You are in the bathroom,
Fixing your hair the way you like it.

The steam from your shower
is setting into the bedroom now.
I can smell your shampoo.

The skylight casting an early summer glow
across the tiny water droplets speckling your skin
makes you look studded with rhinestone.

The subtle shifting of your weight
creates a curve in your side
and as you drop your hip and bend your knee,
I think for a moment,
that you look like art.

That moments like these are what inspire
The greatest artists in the world.

That I might be like them
if you were my subject,
But I am too busy loving you
To lift a paintbrush.

the cold bites back, and the wind does not exist in
sunny california. difference? between
cloudy and gloomy. it's wet and there's ice,
and i'm dressed in nothing but jeans, blue wool, crocs,
admiring a closed loan shop, no street tacos yet,
but a pizza shop firing up their stoves, ovens,
the yeast and olive oil pressed into bowls of
dough, to form nothing but endless
platters and platters of margaritas, pepperoni,
a side of breadsticks.

a man curls up like a kitten seeking warmth on a
bus bench, waiting for the great big fireball to
embrace everything again.
but it is winter, creeping into the shadows,
into my blankets, into nighttime when the rain begins
to clean up when no one else is awake

the moon smiles fondly, and the insomniacs
find solace in the peace of night, when their time
is in no one else's hands but their own,
not in the hands of their mother, warm by
observing the rest of the world
from their perch like a ****** of crows
waiting for the next fallen fry or crumb that
falls in their line of sight

there’s a woman walking, in her mid thirties
and holding a bag of tomatoes, i think
it's not coincidence; she looks like an aunt or
grandma i've seen at church, and there’s a
man probably in his twenties who trails after her
not far like a son