Sunrises and sunsets pass by my brown eyes like flickers in an old movie – the film running through the reel so fast it’s a blur, yet I can still pick up the individual photos. But my eyes are supposed to be blue here, according to the Italians. Mostly, the men who, with their withered hands painted a ruddy brown by years of the Italian sun, grab my freckled arms and shake me into believing I’m as bella as they say I am. 

A year is nothing, yet it is everything. And I walk these cobblestones with a new-found confidence that I know this area well enough to strut through it like I own it. But yet, I don’t, for I crumble under the pressure of ordering a simple meal in Italian when the right people are sitting across from me. Awaiting the stumbling over words and mispronunciation, as my tongue gets caught on the “r’s” that they so seamlessly purr among the Medieval towers I now call somewhat of a home. 

So it is that “hanging-in-the-balance” life I’m living. When I fit in but don’t. When I breeze by century old buildings without a care, but then discover a peculiar stone that fascinates me for days. I am over pasta, but under the impression that I will never have enough wine, or kisses, or sunsets. I will never have enough sunsets. Not here. I know that I will always want one more. Even if I leave, I will need to return. I will have to. My brown eyes couldn’t bear it if I didn’t. 


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