"There is a place I know where we could kiss.
It's out in the open,
Between the sun-kissed fields and a freshwater stream.
There grow berries, plump and sweet
And as I steal them I wish a wistful wish:
For those berries to be your lips."

------

It's early, far too early for anything except maybe overthinking.
For that is never neither early nor late, of that I'm sure as I spend far too much of my life on it.
The sun is barely beginning to rise, I can see it from the halos around roofs and trees just outside my window.
It's a fain yellow, like paint powder on a light blue canvas.
I wish I could paint it, capture it with something different than words, but I guess I won't.
There's a comfort in the shapes of letters I cannot find in any other form of art.
Maybe that's why I write so much, so desperately.
I'm trying to find comfort in the curves of an S, under the branches of a T...

See?

I'm overthinking again while I should head out!
I scramble out of bed, untying my legs from the white sheets now a messy monster limp on the floor.
The faint light from outside lets me find my way among my own mess of a room as I reach for my last poem and shove it carelessly in a bag that has seen better days.
I wrote it last night, just before 4 am, cross-legged on the floor with a full moon watching lovingly over me.
Time, time, I'm wasting time.
My bike is rusty but you can still see the pink under the years of falls and scratches.
It has yet to fail me from letting me fly through the still deserted streets of Rome, chasing the wind on invisible wings.

I'm not particularly fond of the quiet during the early hours of the day, it gives me a stingy sense of desolation being awake as everyone is barely rising.
The shops still closed, the nonexisting traffic, the ghostly alleys I have to take to get quickly to the S. university...
I'd take a bustling Rome around noon over it any time.
But I guess it can't be helped, not if I wish to keep doing what I do.
Seriously, I don't even know why I started hanging my personal poems on the corkboard of that pub.
Maybe because it was close to my university and it's so rare to find a board left out when everything's closed, how was I supposed to resist?
Or maybe it was because I desperately wanted for someone, anyone to read what I had to say, even if they didn't know it was mine...

Quietly, almost scared of someone walking on me as I park my bike in front of the pub, I search for my last poem, a rustle of loose pages coming from my bag.
A pink signature heart-shaped pin already held tight around my sealed lips, I approach the board, looking on both sides before quickly placing that tiny piece of soul in the middle of an empty window for every passerby to see.
My heart pounds in a frantic rhythm, scared as if I just committed an atrocious crime instead of a cry to be noticed.
It will never cease doing it, no matter how many weeks may pass.
I will still feel like a thief of words,
stealing them to someone who might have been more worthy than me to write them on paper.