My Love

In Rome, there stands a lady in gold and stone.

Her clothing moves, not from the wind, but the past.

I reach to her: to this woman with no bones.

She points with fingers I wish to curl with mine.

 

Her face is the color of dust and sand.

Here eyes, the same, and yet, I need them to look into mine.

On Spanish steps, and in the Piazza de Santa Maria,

I drown in her memory: Or at least I try.

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