Ya tebya lyublyu—

I dream of a Russian love poem,
a trace of something to linger on,
an imprint of potential-permanence.

Induce the sweet aroma of summer,
the taste of sea-salt-breeze,
mingling with a recollection
of seasons past.

Tell me of the urban-beauty,
the humming of subway cars,
the flavor of feverish markets,
the utterances of Russian tongue,
coalescing with traffic descant.

Sing the whistle of waves,
the harmony of an imperfect love,
the allure of Russian-English whispers,
the enchanting flavor of Tatiana,
sustaining a taste of Brighton.

Pozhaluysta—

Never omit our love,
the once-tender kisses,
from the waning-present,
the impending ending.

For I once dreamt of a Russian love poem,
but now it is eternally gone…