an antique hotel across a monument. lotus pond. a dimly lit corridor. a short walk to kill time ended with a wall. a painting—had been noticing it even from far away. the yellow aura. the kiss. gustav klimt.
an hour and an old restaurant later, at the city of apples. night was about to come. they named the ice cream ‘sparkling delight’. peach and a burning sparkle stick. it took some time, but the thing sizzled. mini fireworks. sparkled. burned.
that’s how you remember it:
That particular kiss—the kind where the fireworks show is happening here; right here: sparkling, it fills the tiniest gap between our flaming lips.