I want to be the woman who wakes up in your bed…
somewhere in Italia, on an autumn day.
The rain will have fallen; just enough to bring the petrichor out after a long dry summer, the microscopic atoms of ancient clay carried in the drops that burst fragrance through a cracked villa window. It overlooks the vineyard we would tend to, the soil we would nurture.
There, the grapes ripen like our love; hung out to dry and tangled together on the vine, sweetened by time in the unforgiving sun – our rebellion.
It would be linens and warm skin, together. It would be creaking wood in the wind, and uncomplicated life. Rolling hills carry my voice, calling your name without hesitating, because you are my native language, the only one I’ve ever spoken fluently. Unlike Italian. You teach me that.
You teach me that with every “Buongiorno, amore mio.” I drink it like caffe’ latte in small sips, swirled. My eagerness would only increase your determination and eventually, it will stick. I would say, “Grazie mille, amore mio.” One day it will be habit.
Conversation is my foreplay. We would talk sometimes passionately, sometimes softly, sometimes only with our eyes. You would speak to me your philosophy, I will challenge you with mine.
Our sex would stop time.
The seasons would turn, the wine would mature as sunsets coursed over our union in time lapsed waves until we paused to see butterflies mating on a grape leaf.
Lips whisper lines of poetry, drawing me deeper until drunk on your soul.
I can see you there now, alone, without me. My journey has already begun, first in thought. Next in reality.
You would wait. You would wait without stopping.
And when you saw me, finally,
you would know.
~ Em C.
In the mood for some creative writing/prose.