When I look at you,
I remember my last Summer.
When I spend a day in Rome,
that day was so hot,
I was wearing stripes tee and Adidas cap,
Not a cute outfit, I admit.
Under the Sun, I walked by the crowd.
it was Fontana di Trevi
throw your dimes into the fountain, they said.
one dime, then you will go back to Italy.
two dimes, then you will find your true love.
Well, I've been always a fan of this superstitious thing,
Whenever I find a wishing well, or anything that will grant you a wish,
I'm on it.
So I turned my back to the fountain, and I threw two dimes behind my shoulder.
All at once.

And this Autumn, *I have you.

You realise your gaze,
As you watch the grace of her footsteps,
While she sings your favourite tune,
Through the hollows of her teeth,
Under the blankets of her breath.

One, two and three,
The purity of a clear glistened pool,
Coins of the unknown faith,
With the leather-slippered angel,
And the acrylic colours of Rome.

i hate how you're so utterly perfect
i wonder if other people also notice it
how your scattered freckles mimic the stars
little dipper's tail has made home by your lips

i hate your contagious smile, that look in your eyes
for your perfect boyfriend and his indie rock band
i am no longer myself; i am hopelessly tossing coins
and wishing to hold a constellation in my hand

you’re the light
radiating from a light bulb,
in a dark dust-filled room,
the molecules of air
become visible
when you look their way,

they appear as floating
clouds of pixels,
as though we’ve discovered
the software room
of existence
---
you look away
on the wall,
and I hope you realize
darling, I see none
but what your eyes
view, because light
still radiates from you
in this room,

you see a wall
cracked, grey, with Roman letters,
and I see
the Trevi fountain of Rome,
perhaps a little romance
would do us no harm  
---
you look my way,
with eyes so bright,
and my vision deteriorates
unable to see anything
like a car nearing
in the middle of the night,
and its head lights flashing,
blinded I become.

possibly looking into your eyes
blinds me,
and white all I see--
darkness.
---
I blink, once and again,
now,
I see vivid purple and blue
figures, faint
from looking your side for far too long.

(Ajna)

and perhaps,
this is how I love you,
everything I see
beams with happiness
as though the only Chakra
elevated is Anahata,
but when you leave,
my vision blurs,
and I never see the same again.

This is ancient land, this is
       hallowed ground, this is
21 kilometers worth of tunnels.  

Blood stops flowing after death
                                                          becaus­e the heart is no longer beating;
no longer forcing blood to gush through veins and arteries and vessels.  
It gets lazy, becomes stagnant.  
Slowly slides down to the
                                               lowest point on the body; creates a
                                          reddish purple discoloration on the skin
similar to a bruise, but not quite the same thing.  

          This is what I imagine the fifth level of the catacombs to look like:
                                           a reddish purple discoloration
                                          spread across my mother’s back.  

This is what I see when I close my eyes and rub them a bit too hard for a bit too long.  This is what I see when I look into a hole in the stone walls that is big enough to fit an infant.  This is what I see in the reflection of the Trevi Fountain.  This is what I see when I try to remember the shape of my mother’s sleeping body as it curled in on itself on top of a flat hospital mattress.  

The color of death is not black, is not white.  The
color of death is the color of blood: the way it looks
through the skin after having
                                                       hours and
                                                                ­            days and
                                 weeks to
slowly slink down into the
lowest bend of the body.  

This is the reddish umbra of the earth that the
                                                                             eclipsed moon hides behind.  
This is my body given for you.  
Take and eat.  
                                                  Do this is the remembrance of
                                                                ­                                                me.

I saw you in Roman Holiday years ago
but you are much thinner now
today is Monday
both you and your master have a day off
the sea horses make no waves
nor the Triton and the chariot

Wishing for a happy return
I stand with my back toward you
as done in the movie
and quickly toss
three five-hundred-lira coins

Hoping they won’t devalue too badly
before they hit bottom

I’m in the dream again:                not the one I had while awake in
the catacombs of St. Callixtus in Rome.  Where the darkness was
so impenetrable that it began to echo.  To look like the mixture of colors
that burst when you rub your eyes too hard for too long.  Like the
neuron rupture before death.  To shape and morph and become liquid.
Where the darkness cobbled itself into a physical form.

Not the dream where                    I kept seeing
flits of my mother out of the corner of my eye.  Behind
                                                                ­                               every street corner.
                                                                ­                   Every turn.  Every tunnel.  
      Reflected in the casts of the bodies in Pompeii.
Mirrored in the waves of the Trevi Fountain.

I’m in the dream where          the soil churned from the bottom to the top.  
                               where          the hand outstretched from the grave.  
                               where          my grandfather clawed his way out and returned to my grandmother﹘sopping wet, covered in thick mud, socks torn, skin sallow and jaundiced, spitting out the wire the embalmers put in his mouth, melting makeup, and ravenously hungry.  And it’s been so
                                                                ­                   long since he was hungry.  

“He came back to me, Taylor,” my grandmother tells me. 
“He came back to me.”
                                        I don’t have the heart to tell her that he’s undead.  
                                        I’m physically unable to spit out those words.
And it’s a dream and it’s a dream and it’s a dream,                   but
it just fits so perfectly.  That he would come back to her.  
That death would not be a barrier.  I can’t explain it.                It just is.  
My grandmother is a shell without him.  
The body that’s missing the limb.  
The body that keeps score.

Love letter to Rome:You have always been,and always will be my favorite city. Grand and magnificent like you,somehow you like me back.So many people have been desperately trying to approach you but I know they have failed.I selfishly know that I am the one for you even though you have thousands of mistresses who would like to throw their coins away in Fontana di Trevi and wait for hours to get into Vatican city.But I,standing in front of you can say that I am the luckiest,because I feel you through touches,winds,cobblestone roads,the roads to your past,and the people you nurtured.Like you,they took me in generously,they reach out,they communicate with me and embrace me.Rome,you may be everyone's heartthrob,you may be compared with thousands of glamorous cities,but don't forget I am the one who's always here praising you and adoring you for eternity.

I want to be a wish,
Something magnificent.
Considered so carefully,
Desired so deeply.

I want to be a wish
Be the flame
Of every birthday candle.
With eyelids closed tightly,
And breath blown ever so lightly.

In that moment
That second
That instant
Before breath
Escapes lips,
And the fire is extinguished
She believed in herself.
Believed in her wishes.

I am that girl
Curious,
Insightful,
Tenacious,
Yet bashful.  
Begging the question
Who will I be?
Answer me, wish
Please, pretty please.

I want to be a wish
That penny tossed in the Trevi.
One cent is practically worthless
But as a wish,
It's priceless.
All those shiny coins
Sink to the bottom.

Hope floats to the top
Reflecting light
Shimmering bright.
Each coin represents a child
Who bared the same gleam in their eye
Sparing the time
And a little change
To make a wish
Heal their pain.

I want to be a wish,
Something marvelous.
Breathtaking and beautiful
Absolute and metaphysical.

I want to be a wish,
That star shooting through the sky.
Captivating,
Stunning,
Sparkling,
Something worth remembering.

I want to be a wish,
That well kept secret.
Never to tell
In fear it will leave us.
Like a prayer said in the quite of the night.
We asking for something
Speaking to someone
We hold onto wishes,
As a way to create reason.

In a universe filled with millions
There’s an epidemic of loneliness.
Wishes give us this sense of purpose.
Aid us to not feel helpless.

One day your wish will come true
I am your wish speaking to you.

WHY DO I HAVE
TO BE MYSELF
ALL OF THE TIMES

I WISH I WERE
ONE OF THOSE PEOPLE
WHO HAVE TWO LIVES
DRAG QUEENS WITH DAY JOBS
ACTORS GONE MAD
A BIGAMOUS, WITH FAMILIES
IN TWO DIFFERENT CITIES
THOSE VEILED WOMEN
OF TEHERAN
AN UNDERCOVER SPY
OR A LAP DANCER IN MIAMI,
AND SOMEWHERE ELSE
A PROFESSOR OF SOMETHING

WHY DOES IT HAVE TO BE LIKE THIS
ALWAYS
WHY DOES MY NATURE
HAVE TO BE SO
PREDICTABLE

WHY DO I FALL IN LOVE
WITH THE SAME KIND
OF UNSUITABLE MEN
ALL OF THE TIMES
AT TWENTY, THIRTY
AND FORTY FIVE

WHY DO I DO
WHAT I´M SUPPOSED
EXPECTED,
KNOWN
TO DO

AND CAN´T ESCAPE THE RULE
AND CAN´T ESCAPE THE RULE
AND CAN´T ESCAPE THE RULE
TO SAVE MY LIFE

WHY DO WE ALL HAVE TO LIVE IN THIS
PRISON INSIDE

WHY DO I HAVE TO LOVE
MUSICIANS, JAZZ
AND ALWAYS SAY NO
WHEN SOMEONE ASKS
ME TO GO SNORKELING, OR PARASAILING
WHY CAN´T I
SAY YES ONE DAY
TO LINING UP FOR HOURS
TO SEE THE SIXTINE CHAPEL
INSTEAD OF HAVING
A GLASS OF WINE BY TREVI
WITH A GOOD FRIEND FROM PORTUGAL

OR CHOOSE THE MOUNTAINS BEFORE THE BEACH
OR LEARN TO SKI, AND SCUBA DIVE

WHY CAN´T I
SAY I LOVE STOCKHOLM
AND NOT LISBOA
PREFER PARIS TO BERLIN
OR SAN FRANCISCO TO ISTANBUL, THAT´S IN MY HEART

WHY DON´T I MARRY
A BUREAUCRAT
WITH NOT A DROP OF PASSION IN HIS SOUL
AND A CONTEMPT FOR ART
BALDING AND CHEERFUL
TILL WE BOTH DIE

WHY DON´T I START
TO DRESS LIKE NUNS
AND HIDE MY SHOULDERS
AND MY LEGS
FROM PASSERS BY

OR I COULD
JOIN A CULT
BECOME RELIGIOUS
START BELIEVING
IN SOMETHING

WHY DO I HAVE TO BE SO **** SMART
AND TRY SO HARD
TO BE LOVED BY EVERYONE

WHY DO I HAVE TO CRY
WITH EVERYTHING THAT MAKES ME
CRY

WHAT IS THE GOOD OF AN INTELLIGENCE
WHEN IT REASONS ALWAYS THE SAME
WAY
AND ALWAYS REACHES
THE SAME CONCLUSION

I ENVY
THOSE OTHER PEOPLE
THE MURDERER
WHO BECAME A PHILANTROPIST
THE PRIESTESS
WHO BECAME A *******
THE OLD MAN
WHO CAME OUT OF THE CLOSET
AT EIGHTY FIVE
FIVE CHILDREN AND TWO WIVES

CHANGE
CHANCE
AND ALL THINGS
UNFORESEEN
AND YET ARRIVED

A CHANGING NATURE
CHAMELEON MINDS

CHANGE
THAT IS THE ONLY
INTELLIGENCE
THAT MAN CAN HAVE