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this disease she has
that infects her mind
dusk at the seaside;
their feet digging into the sand
as the tide ebbed out
with the last light of day
a never ending cycle
dictated by the moon and
her relentless pull.
and mornings spent at bookstores;
light settled over the open books
and painted their pages gold,
warmed the air so that
time seemed to stop indefinitely,
waiting for the two of them
to get their fill of stories.
what about the countless nights
under the stars;
when his fingers had danced
over her skin and lingered
in her hair, and she had inhaled
the wintry air just to feel her lungs freeze
and remind herself that he was real?
these are the things she remembers now,
silver-haired and alone,
slowly dying in the home they once shared.
unable to remember the important things,
only flashes of moments in time
unwanted, ready to be given away
if only she could remember his name
or hasten the dance of death.
no one ever told her that her me
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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