The street never quiets. The busy babble of street vendors during the day gets replaced by the party people. Italian wine. Italian words. Italian gelato. The clack of heels across cobblestone as women wander through the statues, their giggles passing the open cracks. Florence. All I can do is breathe it in. See every colored building and every bronze statue. Instead, I found myself staring out the window. The light and street sounds occupying my brain. Occupying the page. Occupying me.
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AuthorCorrie Thompson is a writer, blogger, avid reader, and photographer. Follow her poetry on instagram: @mis.underwood Archives
July 2023
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