After a while that Summer you wanted to find us a place
where we could do more than talk.
A hotel would have been obvious, but we had no money.
You knew someone who owned a summer house though.
We didn’t make it to the bed, the view
of the sea and the taste of the retsina
where little flies choose to drown in
– the wine was so sweet they gave their lives
for a sip – kept us on the veranda.
The sun went down faster than I had ever seen
and we held hands knowing each other,
not understanding the choice of little flies that drown.
Years later I went back there. The summer house
was gone for most part, though there were traces left
of the veranda. Sand had covered the floor boards.
I sat there thinking how it all had been,
the ride here on the back of your rented bicycle,
and that the sun went down so fast that night,
and I opened a bottle of wine I brought with me.
Retsina. Out of nowhere they came,
little flies. With no hesitation they entered the bottle,
sure of a quick death. And they were right.
I felt your presence while the evening gave me
one more sunset, faster than I had ever seen.