Calvino writes about cities.
invisible cities,
cities of memory, of desire, of mirrored eyes.
cities, which are easy to get lost in.
he writes about cities within cities with lost names
and cities of ever-dying inhabitants.
cities, in which, if you stay too long you end up forgetting
yourself.
i think there must be cities of wonder,
of escape,
of dreams within dreams,
cities in which my grief buries itself
and forgets my name.
i wonder if such things are possible.
the longer i stay in the pages,
the more cities i become.
cities which no one ever sees.
cities which are still a part of me nonetheless.
seems unfinished