Dear Lover, Your naked neck, your neck all naked is what I am condemned to think about today. We gripped hands so tightly under the table when I kissed you for the second time, we made a poet before you even knew my full name. Today I understand why when they speak of love the whole room turns silent; the whole room turns silent and everybody agrees that love can bend spoons. On the second night, you kissed away old bruises; you left my skin curious again. Do you remember when on the third day, the sand dried on our skins and in our hair, from under half-lazy eyes I watched patiently the sun’s last rays wrap themselves around your golden lips. I am condemned to think only of your naked hands on my naked neck. Your hands are the shape and weight of the confident hands of Greek sculptures.