His name is Francesco. He is a man fearfully acquainted with the secrets of nature. His eyes like a morning dew at the tip of a bamboo leaf, twinkling as the early sunshine kisses its face. His breath, like December’s mist, cold but warm in comfort.
Whenever he takes me to his arms, the world gets smaller. In his arms the world is us.
His name is Francesco. And I am his.
let me call you again with your name, the way you want me to.