Let's let our skin prune and the love age as wine would in the finest of cellars, perhaps in a town of miles of grape trees in rows that reach beyond the horizon wrapping around the world and hitting our backs with ancient sun, Sicilly. The smell in the air is sweet like your smile, and women speak soft and carefully in their native tounge. Hands laced together walking through these vineyards, let's stay a thousand years and let our skin prune.
Growing Old In Italy
April 18, 2011