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The Question Remains.You don't think of me the way you think of her.
You don't kiss me the way you would've kissed her.
You don't love me the way you love her...
The times I wasn't on your mind,
That's 99 to 100.
The way you kissed me felt so right;
The way you held me was so gentle and strong;
The way you looked at me was so genuinely filled with love...
You stayed with me even through my mess;
Through my breakdowns and dramatic scenes I made.
Through thick and thin.
You held me so close,
But you kept me so far,
And you only thought of her,
But you only wanted me.
The question remains:
"Did you ever really love me?"
But, did I ever really love you?
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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