Waking Up in Italy

When I finally open my eyes she is still here,
staring back at me.
Her morning hair is sprawled out on one of my pillows.
Wild.
Untamed.
Yet, so perfectly placed. Every strand.
She is studying my face.
She squints and smiles,
as if my life story were scripted on my face.
"Buon giorno bello."
She whispers so softly that I almost miss the words.
We make love again that morning.

We cook breakfast next. Together.
She is in my large t-shirt.
I am in nothing at all.
Covered only in her sweet kisses.

The scent of cornettos glazed heavy in honey and chocolate,
eggs cooked golden brown with soft buttery bread.
Fresh milk and biscottis...the aroma invades every crevice of the house.
I have coffee.
She has tea.
We stare at each other across the table in silence.
Simply smiling.
Holding hands.
Her feet reaching for mine under the table.
We wash the dishes in more silence with John Legend singing in the background.

Then barefeet we walk along the beach that same chilly morning.
The euphoric waves crash upon the shore as if mocking the blood pumping through my viens.
And still barefeet,
hand in hand we walk the Italian countryside.
Both.
Still silent.

Patrick J.