Sciarabba

I wonder if we stink in heaven so I can shower with you. Pistachio skins linger on my casket, but no grave can hold my body down, I’ll crawl home to her. The open veins of our hearts intertwine between our hands, when she kisses me and the river where we skipped stones castes the shadow of an ocean we couldn’t reach. The heart attack car beeps on the highway without a horizon and cows in art class draw us naked on the canvas of scattered skies which hold a million graves. My hair holds memories of a past I have never lived, and my head dreams of the future I may never have. Maybe the Mediterranean wants to be filled with the carcass of the hearts who are in love so it can be beautiful. I never let the crashes of Librino hit my chest but my soul still beats for sector 45. The headhunter is searching for hearts filled with love and maybe in another life, our clothes are mixed in the laundry. The telephone with no cords misses the girl I call every night, as the distance between Mondello and Manchester is not a call away anymore. But I still hope she bites my love off her fingers and no other soul feels the warmth of her heart. My feet leave stains of love when I walk for a final rest in her bed, and I was born to hustle the roses in the avenues of the dead. Raspberry blonde hair, cherry painted lips, Atlantic ocean eyes and the shape of water carving her body while sunshine shines in our house where Capricorn cats lay their eggs, I still love you.