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Maggots, Little, MaggotsBreathe.
The candy-apple red frames shine in the sun. Gleam and break light off in your eyes. A punchy feeling swallows through to the back of your head. When it gets like this - the nights so bad, the mornings so raw, the afternoons so in between - you can't help but believe that one day, you'll both drown in the rain. Even if the sun is melting the plastic to his cheeks. He'll look at you. He'll say that wasn't all of this - it was worth it. To feel you. All over. Tasting all of you, what's your flavor?
Everything leaves a good and bad taste in your mouth.
In your mind, he feels like daydreaming. His skin is made up of mid-afternoon ADHD symptoms. Smooth and tight. Soft and salty. Bitter in the sense that, oh god, he'll never ever come back if he dies. If you die. If you drown under the rain, soaked to the yellow-green grass. He feels like - oh man, he feels sugar-coated. At least his mouth is. Two sweet, sweet, plump lines of a
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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