I sometimes write down my dreams on a piece of paper, but I only truly remember them when I don't.
talks to me, she's the mirror image of Henry in that sense. She's also
significantly cuter in pink and has the alcohol tolerance of a high
school beauty queen (in spite of being raised on red wine and Sambuca).
The way we stumble through the narrow Trasteverian alleys late at nights
makes me think of rain clouds and the everlasting sun above them. Maybe
it's just our Champagne breakfasts softly whispering back like
"How long will you stay here for" she asks in the shadow of the Trinità dei Monti.
I'm close behind her, the sweet smell of chestnut hair in broad
daylight, hands tight around her pearl white swan's neck. If I press
hard enough I'll kill her. My worried heartbeats are thunder and
butterfly wings and I tell her that I haven't yet decided.