We got off of the bus in a crowded parking lot and didn’t know where to go.

We slept in a loft with another woman who would sleep only in white underwear and her dark protruding belly.
And the bathroom had a glass door. And the shower gave no hot water.

We would pretend we were locals and give direction to the tourists for pennies.

We stole apples for dinner. And made toast in a broken oven.

We slept on a street bench that one time when I was too tired to walk back to our loft.

I lost you in the park where kids met to smoke cigarettes and escape their parent’s eyes.

You found me in the market buying jeans with white wings painted on them.

We went to a fair where one of my shoes got lost under the spinning ride and you got it back for me.

We went to the arcade and you beat me in air hockey three times.

We listened to American music in an Italian cafe.

We hitched a ride into the city, the car was red and the license plate was yellow.

We walked through the ghetto aimlessly for hours.
I jumped over every crack in the shattered glass pavement.

We talked to a prostitute in the suburbs and she taught us dirty words in Italian.

We played soccer on the concrete playground with our new friends.

I left you in Verona with your perfect everything, and caught a ferry to Greece.