Prietenul Meu

Here I sit, writing You. This letter will never be sent.
The sandstone red monkey sits atop the fountain, murmuring into the morning sky. Vine and ivy clime up the old facades, sparrows lurking, waiting for chances, for crums to fall. Me, waiting for an old friend of mine. Who will undermine. Me.
My hair, in waves and as if equipped with a will of its own, cascading down my shoulders, caressing the red of the unstable table, pictures of Venice in the paper I read. William Turner. Yellow, indeed.
Beautiful people here, around me, different from the Angelenos and those, who'd like to be. Maybe more relaxed, like the red monkey, munching on grapes of stone, an old fashioned hat and a tight jacket, completing a masquerade of his own.
Prietenul Meu, te iubesc, iubiare meu, still, you know.
Like water, this love can't disappear.
It's here, forever, chiseled into our past, hard as rock, as in any foundation, yet liquid like sunshine, forever transfusive, transluscent.
Prietenul Meu, still not used to writing these words.
Your girl, she was hurt when I slapped her with words, rubbed the lies and uncertainties into her drifting sands. Is she your girl now?
She should be. If you try to do it right now, I am happy. As Michael S. says, it doesn't really matter who you're with, if you're just working it.
Prietenul meu, the sun kisses the chilli autumn morning. Things pass - we'll all meet at the ocean. Where waters mingle and salt appears.
This is a different life now, and you knew it. Setting me free to embrace my night. The scent of your embrace has mixed with the autumn winds, the red, the gold, the falling leaves, beckoning good bye.
Prietenul Meu....God loves you, each one of his children, the dance, the dance, it carries on....
Prietenul Meu, way up in the crystal clear starlit skies.

Once upon a time
there was a
whild
child