“What does the air in Italy smell like?”
she asked.

He, the American writer in Naples,

“…Of lavender
and damp ancient clay.”

She fell hard. His words made love
to her thirsty heart.

Their words together, an electric storm,

The kind of connection that begs

Two souls briefly converge,
realizing their limits.

She will never smell lavender again
without thinking of him, of Italy

and what could have been.

~ EC



35 thoughts on “Lavender

      1. Thank you, John. The irony is, I’ve never liked my voice, but people keep telling me they love it. I guess it’s a little weird just hearing myself, I suppose. 😊 Are you also on Soundcloud?

        Liked by 1 person

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