almostsomewheremaybe

[almostsomewheremaybe]

[almostsomewheremaybe]

[almostsomewheremaybe]

they’re asking how’s Italy

But what they want to know is if my balcony in Verona wakes in the morning to overlook a sunny Roman Coliseum and Dolomites and Amalfi Coast while I eat a carbonara pizza breakfast cornetto in a cafe. They don’t know what Italy is but neither do I. E inverno, and in Verona the morning is cold and humid and sometimes I could mistake this sky for Ohio. Until the thousand wrinkles in the city’s skin remind me that Veronese have been here for millinea. And no, I don’t want a cappuccino sera or fettucini flambeed in a cheese wheel. I want passione, o certo, but the kind where the flames engulf your heart without injury or insult. I want caffe from a blackened Bialetti. I want Estathe in a plastic cup, and two packs of Pocket Coffee. When I walk in the morning the people all wear black, but cover their dogs with blankets. The dogs shit everywhere and no one picks it up. This is love. Even the dog's shit has a place here that I never will. In my favorite bar, an old woman whose voice heats the cold air with the warm rasp of too much tobacco greets me with her dog, Jenny. A queen and a princess more beautiful than any Giulietta. The magic is gone as I walk to class preparing to duel with articles and prepositions who all agree that I'm a false friend. Americano. The only romance I see is the way Verona embraces her river, lover, Adige. The two never letting go. That is real love I think. That’s what Italy must be. The people and the river and the city and hills tracing a curve like outlining a lover's face. Running your finger down the slope of her neck till it reaches something bone deep. I spend all day looking at ancient bonds with children's eyes and a baby's cry, never knowing if any Italy will ever be mine. I respond, "ma, o certo! Italy has been great. Ottimo. Perfetto." Purtroppo, lei e troppo buona per me. 

[almostsomewheremaybe]

[almostsomewheremaybe]

If you weren’t who I thought you were, what else was I wrong about? Me? Maybe your betrayal was just the stem returning to its root. The first being the lies I told about myself. To myself. Now I fear I wasn't just wrong about you, but worse, and perhaps more fatal is that I was wrong... I was wrong about me.

[almostsomewheremaybe]

Early Pain

Frank Bidart, Half-light: Collected Poems; "End of a Friendship"/ @almostsomewheremaybe / @etteraths / Traci Brimhall, Dear Eros/ @abuzd / Adonis, Celebrating Vague-Clear Things; Celebrating Childhood. Trans. Khaled Mattawa.

[almostsomewheremaybe]

[almostsomewheremaybe]

[almostsomewheremaybe]

magari

noi

solo

ma

un giorno

solo noi

[almostsomewheremaybe]

is this how the hopeless romantic dies?

is this how, in time the romantic dies a natural death where love breaks down long and far from shining canopy heights and returning to the forest bed to sleep, perchance to wake another dream that love has already won

[almostsomewheremaybe]

a perfect winter day a Verona ❤️

[almostsomewheremaybe]

for the hopeless romantic

the hopeless romantic has misunderstood the true nature of their struggle. it is not, whether or not, love is ever found (or kept or lost) but whether or not the romantic is able to live and love and die with hope. hope is what is at risk, could be lost, and must be found. i am now more convinced than ever, that love, is an unstoppable force in the cosmos. the one who comes. in our time and place upon the Creator's canvas, hope is a resource exhaustible. scarce. at risk of extinction. it's what the world (and we a part) desperately needs more of. it strikes me now that the paramount fight in the romantic's struggle takes place in the weeks, months, and years after a true and great love is unrequited and denied to them forever. for how many romantics lose all hope? kill all kindness? become cruel, dismissive, and indifferent? as I said, love is an unstoppable force in the cosmos... we must make hope the immovable object. and what happens when they meet is how we win. so when you are sent to the cross for love, I say only this: die with hope, and do not let hope die.

[almostsomewheremaybe]

sempre per ti

you're someone someone always wants but for me someone I want always

[almostsomewheremaybe]

sometimes things are missing and sometimes you're missing things

[almostsomewheremaybe]

Domani

yesterday your glass was half full today half empty tomorrow overflowing with the blood of your sworn enemies

[almostsomewheremaybe]

2025

[almostsomewheremaybe]

Chondroblastoma

took a blade and split my life

in two before and after

the gap will never close

I’ll have to build a bridge back to myself