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When I talk, you don’t listen.
You’re just waiting for your turn to speak.
You view every conversation as a competition.
All I can see is the unstoppable movement of your cheeks.
The flow of communication is always re directed back to you.
Almost as if everyone must hear what you have to say.
I’m not denying that half of what you say could actually be true.
But how can so much happen to a person in just one mere day.
What makes it worse is that your stories get recycled and repeated.
I zone in and out of your speeches and know exactly what happens next.
My place in the conversation is to respond and nod when needed.
If you can’t tell me in person, you incessantly try to call me or even text.
I can feel my tolerance and patience gradually wearing thin.
I am not even sure how much longer I can hold it in.
I want to tell you the truth but I don’t know how to phrase it.
Because I know once it is delivered, it is impossible to erase it.
So I have
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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