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I became immune
To rains,
Old photographs,
Pine needles
Under my feet – all fleeting contents,
To perpetual good-byes
to objects and people,
The species of strawberry I buy
But never pick,
Some August oils that still remain on fingertips
of my oppressive mind,
The hazy mornings
That turn my blood into the white
Yes, I suddenly became immune
To something unimaginably dear
And gone forever:
My nostalgia
For white nights,
Winds into the 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓉𝑜𝒸𝒽𝓀𝒶,
A lover’s face viewed secretly
Through keyholes,
The snow I blew so carefully
A rusty window sill…
Painting “Frequenze interrotte”, 29×21, charcoal pencil, Sara Maino 2022