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October 13, 2021

nocturne

Livia Meneghin
nocturne

gravel crunches under my sneakers, her 

boots. i can only see what’s in front of 

me, trailing a light behind my steps 

because she sees even less. i almost 

offer my elbow to hold, but don’t. i 

almost offer my coat because it’s cold. 

high tide tries to hush the fluttering. the 

lighthouse wall sends a chill into my 

bones as i lean back, brick painted like 

white ice. i wonder if she’s looking at 

me while i look up, exposing the scar 

on my neck to the stars and the dark. 

the night is full of loud,

                            heart-racing silence. i 

feel her eyes counting my ribs, the disks 

up my spine, the teeth in my mouth. i 

fish within wool, slowly unwrap a kiss. 

my fingers are so numb, they barely 

bend to peel back aluminum. i ask, 

what are you thinking? chocolate takes 

minutes to melt. my feet hurt standing 

for so long. i want to be in love. i will 

be in love. i will be in love. i’ll be in 

love. i’ll be in love. i’ll be in love. i am 

in love. i’m in love.

i’m in love.

             i’m in love. i’m in

                            love, i love

Livia Meneghin (she/her) is the author of Honey in My Hair and a GASHER review writer. She is the winner of Breakwater Review's 2022 Peseroff Prize, a Writers' Room of Boston Poetry Fellowship, and The Academy of American Poets' 2020 University Prize. Her writing has found homes in Solstice Lit, Entropy, Tinderbox, Whale Road Review, and elsewhere.

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