Before you left, I was crying.
The dark, Adriatic Sea framing you-- earth still warm from the sun.
I picked you up off the ground; you smelled like figs, walked like wine.

Before you left, I was crying.
Back then you still told me “I love you, my Rosa.”  in the smoky cantina -- our honeymoon.
I recall the intensity of that night, running, our living, visceral connection.

Before you left, I was crying.
Trying to recapture the courtyard, just you, excited by grape vines with life in them.
I had not forgotten the smell of your neck, you appeared at my side, secretly took me.

Before you left, I was crying.
1966 -- dressed in black: you fell in the garden, then baked in the sun.
I pressed you into ground, you still smelled like figs, still walked like wine.