I've emptied the jars of myopic dreams
and poorly thought out plans
and given myself space.
Space for flip-flop tan lines and Italian accents.
For gut-busting pasta con ragรน in Emilia-Romagna,
for callused fingers running through salty hair.
Escaping from treadmills,
I'm the runaway robin peddling on a rusted bike.
Creaking gears and heart shaped dimples.
Free from car exhaust and garbage trucks,
Nonna Lina's garden calls my name.
A place where telepathy and hand-written letters are
the only form of communication.
I'm laughing under the Magnolia tree.
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