spring in Atrani

we took the 77' bus from Palermo to Cefalù and rented a room on the second floor of a small hotel. the beaches were still and the railroads motionless at this time of year. we spent the days by the beach reading until our skin turned leather and the cool sea became a gorgeous turquoise. the nights were warm and the fiesta came earlier this year, the streets spilled with wine and the soles of your feet stuck to the pavement at the approach of midnight.

endless days by the sea, lost in translation, her hair dark, her eyes green, a backless white dress. high cheekbones taught under the Italian sun, she was a fever dream that I never wanted to wake from, a warm cascade of laughter and desire that stung me with a poison to which I was realising there was no cure.

her gaze like lightning, trepidation on the night we met, assure of herself, unsure of me. back to our hotel now, corner room, city lights glimmering through the window. tiles cool, shower hot, steam pouring out from underneath the door.

her dress crumped on the floor by the bath, soft carpet under her feet, a robe hanging from the door. water running, the smell of salt and clean pressed sheets, a pillow against the wall, her hand against the wall.

it was on nights like this that she asked was it better to speak or to die? to push on against the tide of the river or to bow down to a reality which I saw so clearly yet wanted no part in accepting. for now I would be quiet under the cover of the sheets, under the blanket of the Italian sky, until the dawn approached with vengeance and my mind would be a little clearer once more.