Ensconced, nascosta, deep red velvet booth,
We’re served Punch Mandarino from delicate tazze.
Tangerine liquor thaws my throat,
pinkens my cheeks, dampens my doubt.
Frigid fingertips dance on hot glass.
Gazing at my blue veined wrist,
you confess, “If I could touch you there,
everything would be alright.”
Cloaked in wool and marriage, I feel naked.
As we sip shimmering sweetness
of this clandestine cordial,
I feign indifference to your charms.
Piazza Navona feels empty and gray,
cobblestones slicked wet with rain.
We huddle closer, desperate,
Like we’re caught in amber, unable to part.
When we finally separate, I slip.
Catching me, you graze my wrist.
Your fingers caress these blue veins
and I knew then, we were to be.