words by dominic riccitello

i tip my glass
to a man i thought
you seemed to be
one with hands
which spoke a soft
a slight sultry

yet here i was
torn to shreds
in my own hands
where thorns
seemed to caress

we spoke of
fine things
wine and things
foods with cheese
thoughts which would
make you scream

and there we were
atop grass
singing the past
in ‘96
where i loved
and kissed your neck

the murders in the eve
the cemetery
i still think of you in white
occasionally gray
in that night
where you held my hand
in the crowd
of the long distance somber

and when i said your name
you leaned upon the jeep
a selfish thought
that i could keep
you in my grasp

but for you
the grass was greener
and for me it was black
with shades of red
where passion seemed to slip
throughout the cracks

it was the grass
your words
your hands
the soft things
you said to me

the innocence
in your name
the way i looked at you
in that way

it was always you
in the past
in the future
in other worlds
where i dreamed of you

but just promise me
it’ll always be
the ‘96 love
you had with me