Argentina my love

I am thinking a lot about my time spent in Argentina.

One obvious reason is because my new love is from Argentina. We talk about the food we've both tasted, the different neighborhoods we've both walked in, and the small, special senses of the city we both share: the smell of garlic and onions simmering in olive oil, the sight of a beautiful and tragically thin Portena, the taste of bitter mate in a goard drizzled over with honey--and when Matias speaks Castellano, it has the tone and sound of the language of Buenos Aires. In my naive, romantic mind, I imagine he has the voice of Buenos Aires.

So I am thinking of Buenos Aires, again, something I have not done for a while.

I traveled unconsciously to Buenos Aires for love, because of a boy named Lane, whose name means a long road--and there in Argentina, I found love, and lust, and something that appeared to be love, but was not, and I carried the hope of love, and the hurt of love, and the will to love. And I found love when I came back from Argentina, with a man many years my senior who I spent last year traveling with.

So Argentina has manifested love for me in many forms.

I returned from my 3 month visit in Argentina 2 years ago, and I am just now unburying the backbone of my story, and I am writing it now, and the title is:

Argentina

My

Love,

enough ars poetica,

I am going to write.