l’art existe.
tucked between brutalist lines and fluorescent shadows.
not a declaration—
a reminder.
of what survives the structure.
of what glows anyway.
even in institutions.
especially in ruins.
i haven’t been back to italian class.
not really a decision—more like a slow unthreading.
at first i missed one, then two.
a message half-drafted. a reminder snoozed.
now it’s just a tab i don’t open.
i think of them sometimes, conjugating without me.
the schwa still soft in my mouth.
still mine, even if unused.
there was no rupture. no reason.
just me, always a little too tired, a little too elsewhere.
it’s not shame. not quite guilt either.
just the shape of absence when you let it stay.
i’ve left so many places like this.
no goodbye, no explanation.
not because it didn’t matter, but because it did—and i couldn’t hold it all.
the leaving isn’t loud.
it’s slow. partial. unfinished.
like language.
like me.
stood there teaching, not to perform,
but to remember.
to speak of what refuses extraction.
to name what pulses under erasure.
black keffiyeh against the chest,
kiki futures on the screen.
the room knew.
not everything had to be said.
some things shimmered between us.
maybe this is what pause looks like.
sun on porcelain. bridge in the distance. book barely opened.
the city behind the cup isn’t waiting. it just moves.
but for a moment, i don’t.