In the Da Vinci’s garden

Unseen pattern of inexisting kisses,
Unseen insects –
cicadas
Sing and speak
in the Da Vinci’s garden.
I feel weightless
When running behind you,
Leaving the prints on the art nouveau
Marbles
Of stairs,
You are the architect and the ingredients
Of my predicted happiness.
There will be no morning
To find that
I no longer love you.
I’m folding your unwritten letters,
Carefully,
Your undone kisses
Are in my memory.
Imagining you
Playing Chopin or Shostakovich
on your typewriter –
Beneath me
the carpet
Takes on
an elastic life of its own.
It’s 1 o’clock in the morning.
I kick off my shoes and falling
Crosswise
Upon a hotel bed:
in slowmo
I am hearing your voice:
“Why don’t we go to Venice…?”