Sul ponticello

In the mist I stand,
jacket wrapped tightly.
I hear shoes.
Not yours; another’s.
A staccato beat,
notes deadened
in the thick air.
She passes
and I watch.
My breath follows her,
drawing me as if
by a leash.
The river is cold,
black and quick below.

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One thought on “Sul ponticello

  1. This is cold lonely and beautiful.

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