Darling, do you remember how soft and calm the sand was underneath our exhausted, adventurous feet as we strolled around the exotic coastlines in Nice, my hand in yours, humming shy poetry?
I think my most treasured memory is the day we got lost in the playfully confused streets of Venice, the smell of the ocean and thirst drenched in our sighs as you pushed me back against the welcoming wall, lips on mine and hands on my hips
(I know tourists recall this better than we do)
We used to sneak out at midnight in Naples, rolling in the beaches and collecting stars in our hair, feet half-damp with Italian ocean and sadness that this will soon end
I gave you my first kiss in Venice, you gave me our last in Zurich and I sometimes wish we kept in touch
(I think we were beautiful as fuck, leaving traces of adolescent infatuation and kisses on street corners and on foreign sandcastles, only keeping little faint reveries for ourselves)
