somewhere in the italian countryside 

near the alpine mountains

that share wind,

leaves,

and sigh inducing 

bottled fjord water 

with switzerland 

I am sitting awake 

hounded by the convertor 

and conversion rate 

and inevitable return 

I am trying to erase you 

but I see you in the 

Italian jawline 

I am trying to forget you 

but I am sleepless 

writing letters and poems 

I will never send 

all this beauty in the foothills

and my gestures call your shoulder 

the small place in your neck

– sheila c

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