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Paper YoyoPaper Yoyo
"Dave look!" An overly excited fifteen year old pulled his boyfriend's hand over to a small little spot filled with old fashioned kids toys. Old fashioned in the sense that the two played with them as kids. John's bright eyes shimmered as he stared at the boxes full of memories.
"Fuck John, what could you possibly want here? We aren't 5," Dave said. He examined dinosaur figures, light up yoyos, silly putty, and other trinkets through shaded eyes. This was so unironic he thought he might explode. John let go of the taller boy's hand to pick up a paper yoyo.
"This. Oh my god, these are the best," he said excitedly. Dave looked at the paper yoyo questioningly. That's when a certain memory came into his head.
John snapped his wrist, releasing the wrapped paper towards Dave, successfully landing a hit on his chest. Now it was no longer a memory.
"Jooooooooohn," Dave groaned. "That's fucking annoying."
John giggled, hitting Dave a couple more times with the pap
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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