It is as if I had lived this story just to write it.
Italy, this villa, Rome, this van, his smile.
And this tenderness that we had for each other that made all those who looked at us jealous.
Then I loved him as we love a madman.
And by dint of loving a madman, I myself have gone mad until I could no longer write at all.
YOU ARE READING
Eight Billion Thoughts For You
PoetryJust another very thoughtful girl. * Spreading thoughts since 1996 * (Not all -but almost all - poems are mine). All rights reserved.
