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 converter

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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