Princess, I think of you as one thinks of wine when it’s not yet night and the heart is already warm.
You have dark red hair, like must born alive, like a color that doesn’t ask permission and remains in your eyes.
You are free, and your freedom doesn’t hurt: it teaches.
You love without chains, giving your heart with the kindness of one who doesn’t promise, but is true.
I loved you like this, in silence, as one loves what cannot be held back, like the slow breath of a glass before the first sip.
There is in you the foam of must, that sweet anticipation that ferments slowly and never becomes drunk wine, but remains a scent, memory, intoxication.
You will never be mine, and yet you remained.
In the intense red of memories, in the heartbeat that doesn’t forget, in every evening that tastes of sweet nostalgia.
Princess,
you are the love that doesn’t materialize but lives, like the finest wine: it is not possessed, it is breathed.
And I,
even without touching you, I was still a little drunk on you.
Marcus Sub Rosa