Your force presses against my skin
How fire licks misshapen iron.
Walls turn to clay, melting, churning,
Welding into learning curves,
Yearning for my rebirth.
Your pheromones, now oxygen,
Have woven in my scarlet sweater.
The indescribable stench brings me
To the middle of Little Italy,
Where the fiddle sings merrily.
Burnt olive skin sizzles
When you’re near, spittling
Rays of sunshine on my hair.
The crosata’s berried heart is
Nothing without its flaky outer layer.
Portami a casa, amore mio.