VON GIORGIO FERRETTI //
But what do our skins say
as we lay on the bed again?
They thrive, tremble
fingers dance cold tango
to change the subject
I ask him for a spare one
instead I get parsley.
I steal a bit of his cologne
we exhale, inhale
him, looking at the buildings
I translate what skin wants
tell him I like them
I think they’re pretty
I stare at them sometimes
he moves away from the window
and I caress my hair
wonder what’s he doing behind me
I smell his skin on mine
and feel cheated,
because I thought it was his
and not some cologne.
I turn around and say,
you can touch me if you want.
A vase of parsley
on the kitchen table.
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