among the ruins of our past, you say there’s three arches to cross to reach you. I cross the first two in a heartbeat, sweet baby, but the third is our 'loco' idea of freedom.
I stand still under this solid arch at night, holding a glass in my hand. There's a blend of feelings inside it, 'but they are all distillates of love’ I tell you, 'and that's why it tastes like single malt'. A single malt that’s older than our years together, baby.
A million dense feelings, like Roman buildings crammed together. It feels like I can step out a door and into a window, and from there out of my soul and naturally into yours.
Spectators of our grand idea shout 'you are feeding each other to the lions’. But could the holding of hands be the gesture that keeps sparing our freedom?
And when the night falls, and everyone leaves the arena, could you turn on the moonlight and, humming the sound of a familiar waltz, take me for a peaceful stroll among the dead?
You ask me what I’m thinking, but I can’t reply. I am busy diluting this ‘loco’ idea with a thought, to bring out its flavour. That thought is “I love you”, and that's why we'll always have Rome.
Missing you is surreal, but I am calm in the centre of this whirlwind. I have the answer now, it’s ‘to return to Rome’.
And when the dust settles, and the the melody of ‘acuerdate de mi’ stops echoing, i'll still remember what single malt tastes like: a blend of love and freedom, and that blend tastes like you.
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