Noontide Impressionist Portrait of a Solitary Serenissima Stroll
I crumble, hit by the sunlight, crushing and clashing over the deserted veins between palaces. The sun rules over the city: it defines shape, color, heat, and who can endure the blessing of its presence. Dizzy, I lose my thoughts in churches’ marble walls, shining like sea salt on the sacred back of my lover. The noisy murmur of a far tourist crowd is a golden spiral echo, pierced now and then by the antiphony of seagulls ready to shadow their prey.
Kept under observation by gilded Byzantine mosaics, I start wondering if I could refresh myself with some holy water, if a prayer could eventually save me from sin. This heat is getting sticky like my t-shirt—now sweat-soaked; it’s getting my mind sunburned, my whole body sun-and city-soaked. Here I crave your blushing cheeks as much as an ice cream, as much as fresh after-sun cream over my reddened, dying epidermis—over my soon-to-be-born pink armor.
