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I want.I want to map out the night sky on your body.
I want to find the constellations in your freckles,
And trace the shadows on your skin with the pads of my fingers.
I want to learn the way you breathe through my hands,
Feel your diaphragm collapse and expand under my palms.
I want to kiss down the knobs of your spine,
Until I have all of the dips in your back memorized.
I want to learn the secret of how you laugh,
And catch it before it gets the chance to escape.
I want you and your imperfections,
And I want it forever.
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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