You slid the ring on my finger. I slid the ring on yours. We kissed. So happy. So in love. We honeymooned in Italy. And made love in front of hot fireplaces, our naked bodies luxuriating on top the warm, pelt rug. I called your name. You called mine.
Our flushed bodies pressed together, you whispered, “Ti amo, Hana.”
You kissed my cheek. Ravished my lips. Grew hard against me.
“Another round,” you said, “and we’ll go shopping. We’ll sip Malvasia as we walk hand-in-hand through Giardino degli Aranci.”
You breathed sweet words into my ear, accented and foreign. Your deep voice sent shivers down my spine.
“Not here,” I warned.
We dined. We loved. You spoiled me, made me feel special. And I thanked you on top the Ponte Sant’Angelo.
You said to me, while slipping a forkful of Tiramisu between my parted lips, “Innamorato. That is how you make me feel, love.”
You never told me what it meant. However, that night, with the twilight sky stretching for miles in front of us, you made me feel it.