Italian justwrite

Made in Italy, not in the window of an empty house with anonymous snowblowers outside, clearing unknown sidewalks of empty footprints, remembering cardboard boxes and tufts of air but forgetting balloons and the way your lungs contract, wind like fire, the natives dancing through it in their overalls and plaid shirts, eating corn straight off the cob because food is better without silverware, your skin creasing at the corners of your mouth and eyes, moonlight getting caught in the folds, mixing with shadow. I find a bed of pine needles, and while I sleep, my hair smells like pine, and if you cut me in half you'll know how old I am if you count the gold rings and divide by two. I'm thinking of imaginary numbers and waiting for my life to start while the best words pass by the window and I forget my stop so the conductor sends me back in time when she checks my ticket again, and I find peace in falling, especially if the world is as bottomless as I suspect, the walls transparent, like stained glass, coloring the people outside blue, and I don't know it now, but it's the same looking in, them staring into my blue blue eyes framed by blue hair, but my lips are grey so my smile fades into shadow. Soon there are vines growing from my fingertips, the one plant that doesn't grow away when you touch it, and I marvel at the smoothness of the walls, like skin before you've laughed or clay after you've thrown it against a table. I become mud for the second time and wish I could reform myself, but my fingertips are too soft, so I'm waiting.