You Do Not Drive a Practical Car and I Am Okay
With That Because You Have Lips
1562
The year kissing in public in Naples was punishable by death.
The year we learned to kiss with our hands, making lips with our hands, little finger mouths, kissy kissy, funny funny, whoa! slipping in some finger tongue you naughty bitch, you can’t kill us for that, can you?
The year we lived in my grandfather’s attic, staring down at the street, the wet street—the street was wet when it rained, no shit, okay.
The year dogs barked for no good reason, please shut up.
The year we sewed our own clothes, yes yes yes yes yes.
Things.
It was the year of things and fake kissing with hand mouths or mouth hands—sexy whores.
Look at my lipstick!
I can’t stand living in Naples. I can’t stand at all. I have no legs.
Here’s a picture.
And here’s me whistling through the streets of Naples, the wet, no fuss no muss streets.
I will miss that year, that year of hiding and sweat. Hello.
