Blonde Italian Cowgirl
Created | Updated Jun 4, 2002
Blonde Italian Cowgirl
They say 'tis better to regret the things you've done than those you've not. And maybe this is true. I should have left that ugly flower. I should have run to you.Sweet blonde Italian cowgirl, I met you on the train to Venice and on the train back. I used up all my chances, consumed probability. I'll never see you again and that is my regret.
Oh, the circumstances damned me. How could I have known. But for that which impeded me, I would never have met you. I had an idea and I wrote it on a slip of paper, but you ran too fast when we disembarked.
They say of all the words of mice and men, the saddest are: it might have been.
A magical day in your smiles... a wonderful kiss all the while... along the miracle mile... an unfair trial... not enough guile... torture the man, suffer his style.
You smiled when I looked at you. Oh, you smiled! It wounds me to think of you, and I'm sad. I regret.
The worst thing of all is not that I didn't talk to you; not that I'll never see you again. Its not that out of some misguided decency, I didn't make a move. The worst thing of all is not that I'm kicking myself for things I did wrong or didn't do right, and it's not that I'm suffering now.
The worst thing about it is that it will pass. Your memory won't stay with me forever. Though for two hours you were the most beautiful thing in my life, for the rest of my days, you're doomed to fade away.
Let's put you down here. Loosely curly blonde hair peeking out from under that old black felt cowboy hat. Those smiling green eyes, slouch, stare out the window, that sweet eye contact. That final ciao and my heart broke. You ran away so fast. This hurts.
Damn it I'll just write a song for you and you'll come back to me. You'll magically appear and say, "mi hai scritto una canzone, che dolce!"
You hang around forever in this song until I forget what it meant. Or I'll still remember you and introduce it as a song I wrote about a girl I saw on a train to Venice. And only that, forgetting what you really were, your face, and the effect it had on me.
Why am I doing this? I always write when I'm desperate. It's only despair. I wish I didn't despair. I wish could know everything in advance and know what to do, the best thing. Such childish thoughts. Base desire. Your name is Giulia.
Or maybe I'll write this song and become famous and play a concert in Brescia. Or Milan would do, because you'll like my music enough to do the 100km to come see me.
"Volete sentire la versione italiana?"
For you Giulia, I'll say. Are you here? Do you remember me? I've forgotten you.
You scrunch your eyebrow smile at mine. Shrug off the smile of that strange boy. So strange, just smiling. Sweet ass. Tip that cowboy hat. All the stupid things you said with your friends. God damn it!
Now I want to have kissed you. My blonde Italian cowgirl. Your silly sexy smokers' girl voice. Your cheeky smile. Shades of Curry twins. Brush back a wisp of half blonde hair with two fingers. Toss your bag over your shoulder. Button up that denim jacket. Smile at me with your dimples. Pull the hat down by the brim. Turn and walk away. Give me a final, "ciao!" and walk down the platform, and out of my life.
I'm sad because I'll never see you again, and I liked you.
