San Salvatore lies asleep on top of a bed in an hotel room. His lips are chaffed from the sun and drinking. He’s fat and lazy. He a poet and a drunk. I’ve never understood him but that’s not my position.
I pick up his white linen shirt and drape it over the back of a chair. I look down onto the black lake. Soon I shall need coffee.
I lay my head on the pillow next to him. Perhaps a kiss would moisten his lips. But that is not my position.
I sit on the edge of the bed. San Salvatore, San Salvatore, sailor of oblivion. Beaux rêves.
Meet me again someday.
I drain thought from my mind. It leaves just you. But you are drifting. And I’m nocturnal creeping. I like to think you are sleeping. I like to think that your mind is crowded with dreams. I close my eyes. You sleep. You cough. You need to drink some water. You need to pee. Or think you do. It might just be a reflex. You sit on the loo. Checking messages on your phone. You felt cold at first getting out of bed. You are tired. You don’t care. No rules, no restrictions. No corrections. Let’s take the first take. I don’t want to sleep. I go outside and look up at the moon. I stand talking to you. I open a beer and sit by the stream. I don’t really care who hears me talking to you. I think of your shoes. You drain thoughts from your mind. You are no longer sleeping. You close your eyes. Lie down on the bathroom floor. You laugh. Where is the moon? I can see it reflecting on the black lake. Mon Amour Amarone.