For Pain
Let's fly to Italy, you say, completely serious, whispering the suggestion into the pliant curve of my mouth. Right now, tonight, let's just get on a plane and go.
It's always Italy. You talk about culture and history and reconnecting with the old country, but I know it has more to do with warm beaches and miles of vineyards than the pull of heritage. We could be on a plane tonight, you murmur, words languid and inviting, your breath a hot buzz into the shell of my ear. Tonight.
What would we do in Italy? I want to know. Two city boys from Long Island stumbling around Europe, lost and monolingual. And don't try to play the ethnicity card, I warn, nipping at your jaw line, you're as Italian as I am when it really comes down to it. Tilting up to kiss you, but the expression of mock-indignation widening your eyes sends me into a fit of laughter, and by the time I catch my breath your moue of pseudo-affront has transformed into an enigmatic grin.
We'd spend the whole day wandering the countryside, you muse, lips skimming the faint rise of my collarbone. We'd roam the hills until we got hungry, and there would be a little village, with a deli that made the best gnocchi in the world. We'd eat until we couldn't move and drink coffee on the veranda while the sun set.
And wine? I ask teasingly, laughing a little as I trace a scar on your shoulder with my tongue. I expect you to maybe chuckle or roll your eyes, but instead I look up to see you carefully watching me.
You could drink all the wine you want, straight from the vineyard, you offer huskily, gaze searing as it drops to my mouth. All you want.
And you? I ask, almost afraid of the answer.
I'd drink it from your lips, you whisper, and the rough tenderness of your voice is more than I can take. I let my eyes roll closed, and nearly flinch at the burning hot touch of your hand as it slips beneath my shirt, ghosting over my ribs. I'd taste it on your tongue at night. It would be warm enough to sleep outside, underneath the stars. We'd curl up on the still-warm sand and I would drink you down.
Such a romantic, I tease, because I need to defuse some of the dizzying heat to your words. My head feel hazy and strangely light, and I'm struggling just to push the words past the leaden weight of my tongue. Such an eternal romantic.
Let's fly to Italy, you whisper, hiding the words in the hollow of my navel. We could be on a plane tonight.