Cassata Kiss

Kiss me: you don’t say so, but you try to tell me. You say other things. You say the afternoon is gorgeous, that the sunshine dispersed over the river reminds you of your childhood, and the world is a beautiful place despite itself. Then in a trice, you are quiet. Daring me not to read your eyes. The traffic on the bridge at a distance, runs on an effete lullaby-ish rhythm. And the screeching seagulls in flight, plummet now and then to the wire railing nearby. I ask you to describe it all in a word. You instantly invent one, one that sounds like ‘cassata’. I give you a whole false look that tells you—you are too simple. In truth, every time I’ll eat that ice cream now, we’ll be kissing in my head.