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Dear Rome

Dear Rome,

I was a piece of parchment
paper held together by glass
when we last met,

Dear Trevi Fountain,
I was eleven when I stopped making wishes
I threw a coin at you
and the milky way fell down
from the midnight sky, leaving
a trail of dried-dandelion-skeletons.
Their needles were still piercing me
when I saw you leaning
against the summer’s naked night.

I didn’t know how
to break through,
to touch you.

Dear Bernini,
If the rape of Proserpina
can be made so soft
that I can feel my forefinger
meet my thumb between the skin
hugging my ribs,
can I be sculpted back to life?

I’m scared the language
holding us together
will start to tear.

Dear Spolia Wall,
You showed me it’s acceptable to hold
onto haphazardly stuck remains.

I keep you trapped
behind the breaking glass
on my phone, hoping
you will slip through the cracks,
materialize into my life.

Dear Etruscans,
You taught me how to exist
when I didn’t believe I was alive.

Even though it feels like
we never met,
I miss you.

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