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whisper farewell with tears in throat and fly with anxiety and excitement;

escape one life to visit another

here is a world that is quiet and calm

(except at night or in the early morning;

afternoon stillness is a deception, for at night comes the singing and the drums.)

and the bells—oh, the bells.

ceaseless chime from yonder tower over orange-tile rooftops.

green shutters open over cobblestone streets with cafe tables and people walking,

wind blows heat past into something not-quite reaching coolness.

come with me to the garden and look out to the hills;

they tower as mountains, nestled with houses like anthills in fields or beehives on branches

i hate it here, says the beautiful girl with the rolling words. i want to visit your home

think of the gray asphalt streets and the crooked stop signs

the grass is always greener on the other side, the sky always a deeper shade of blue.

sometimes i want to go home. marbles in feet and sweat between thighs, but oh, how are voices ring.

there is difficulty in distance;

and a sort of detachment from reality

is this my life? is this my world?

this is a liminal space that exists in the moment and will remain in photographs;

across the waves, my family still slumbers as the noonday sun rises above my head. 

will i remember this when i return? will i forget the details—the smile of the barista, the stray cat crouched in the shade? will i forget the deafening wind in the microphones?

i think i will not forget the hills, rolling and fantastical;

at the very least, i will have the evidence saved for later viewing.

at last visit, i painted this scene;

i could not capture its essence.

but evidence, i think, will remain in the deep pockets of my voice,

and my song will linger in the corners of cathedrals.

 

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First of all, jess my girl, this is beautiful and the imagery makes me want to drop everything and move to italy

secondly, in no particular order:

4 hours ago, thepensword said:

i hate it here, says the beautiful girl with the rolling words. i want to visit your home

think of the gray asphalt streets and the crooked stop signs

the grass is always greener on the other side, the sky always a deeper shade of blue.

(throwback to our country poems) but this flows so nicely with the rest of the poem, even if it fits in as more of an aside

4 hours ago, thepensword said:

will i remember this when i return? will i forget the details—the smile of the barista, the stray cat crouched in the shade? will i forget the deafening wind in the microphones?

I don’t really know why I like this part, but I do. (I feel like you could go either way with line breaks and repeating the will I a second time) 

4 hours ago, thepensword said:

I could not capture its essence.

Very relatable problem, but here I feel like you do a good job of verbally capturing it. I suggest going more in depth on the essence, what bits of it you can describe.

 

4 hours ago, thepensword said:

and my song will linger in the corners of cathedrals.

Good line to end on. Musical, a little alliteration, gotta have a cathedral somewhere.

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