Ache

How is it that you miss a place
you have only wandered for a mere week,
and that,
years ago?

And yet, like a distant lover,
never consummated, you live under its spell,
sure somehow there is heaven embedded there,
the taste still lingering on your lips.

About this poem. 

For me, it’s Venice. Where is it for you? Who it is for you?

Tom

ver,
consumated, I do.