Empire State of Love

by Cristina Marongiu

One drop of truth on a peak of symbols and virtues,

that’s how she saw from afar the biggest building,

in the big city of flashes and promises.


She, a well of emotional intents, a wet poem and a scarf in her hand,

valued it differently, while rushing in her own movie

to meet reality – him, or thirty years of awaiting destiny,

nothing to equal such feeling,

she was protecting with all her being,

running, pacing, waiting, reaching out towards a spot

his veracity to unfurl,

felt once somewhere in another fate,

a magic she was trying to comprehend

on that platform of lights

like a big screen of romance,

and the sensuous silence would define

the ritual of hearts.


“Reality is not made of dreams until you make them real”,

she kept remembering a quote

yet, always positive, like a relentless soldier of love,

sometimes tired of solving the world

with only a few values of gold.

“A long time ago..”, she started in whispers,

with delicate smiles and dewy eyes,

a story unveiled before

about a vision and a little girl

of the same scene she was just living,

déjà vu made out of truth and sheer significances,

bejewelled with moments of awe and beauty,

kept secret for decades, shared only with him,

with an enthusiasm of genuine pulses,

which she kept taming

not to spoil the maturity of such innocent revealing.


“Let’s go, it’s getting dark. You don’t want to miss the Central Park”,

the only Happy End he could append

to a story with no end,

where a rhapsodic scene was honed by prosaic accessories,

needed to keep a balance with reality.


They left from the top of the glow

to descend in the mundane flow

which was more simple to behold,

his hand holding on tight a wet poem, a scarf and a gentle life,

from now on in his path

to cherish and never let go

of what was made for him with unconditional faith;

she, happy and confused, followed his steps

on long streets with no name,

where chocolate mingled with mangos and caramel,

on broad avenues of glimmering stars,

where fame and passers-by swarmed for wonders to find.


It was only late at night,

while she was conceiving dreams to better find the sun,

that he scribbled down on a scrap of paper in her bag

And he hid it with the hope

that she would find it years afterwards

only to confirm in facts

the essence of what they have always been about

from the moment of their “hi” to the depths of their sighs

shared heart to heart

to patch cracks of haunting past or present in rush,

no matter the people, regardless the seasons,

they had been and still remain

a one-of-a-kind braid entwined with precious details,

or just one drop of truth

out of a peak of symbols and virtues.



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