When he was here, he would
call me “piccina mogliettina”,
“olezza di verbena”,
charmed me with his suave
Italian, American English, or
whatever…
Where is he now, Butterfly,
where is he fucking now?
Butterfly, you are young, you are
lithe and
beautiful;
take these foolish dreams of
youth and pretty
words, and live a long and
happy life.
As you enter Act II,
don’t you realize, he’s
boinking someone else
back in the States?
Isn’t this how it always
is?
Friday, May 25, 2012
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One Art, to recognize, must be,
Another Art to Praise.
- Emily Dickinson