The only love letters I can write, are those to cities
and all I really remember of Lido Di Jesolo is the sunroof in the hotel, climbing out,
the city lights on the right, and the ocean to the left.
Singing into our blow dryers, delirious from the Triazolam.
Racing each other to the beach at midnight. I stopped running so I could look up at the moon.
Seeing who could hang upside down from the bunk beds the longest.
I still have a photo of me jumping up and down on that yellow velvet ottoman, although I don't fully remember doing it.
Every moment spent there, was lovely and bewitching, yet accelerated and abrupt
For everything that's lovely is but a brief, dreamy, kind of delight.
And before I knew it, we were speeding away,
and the Italian Riviera became just another place to write love letters to
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