Πυγμαλίων

The men to fall for in Firenze are fierce; they throw stones at giants.

They’re written on the wall, pigment in plaster, diamonds in a fascist rough. They’re bought and paid for with ancient coin.

Crossed eyes are nothing to a Duke with aspirations to sainthood. Fix emperors to his studded walls, carve his haughty gaze in their image.

The men you fall for in Florence aren't yours; you pay for the privilege. Pay to see them, let them lead you through the streets to their thrones.

Serene, all-knowing, they'll walk you over trails of crumbs stumbling through new words, letters, sounds and syllables. They keep you on course, bring your feathered feet back to the river.

Back to the wary boy, wrist cocked and waiting.

The men you fall for in Florence wont come with you. 

The boy might stay safe, pristine in his Galleria but others change color others start to fade. Secure in aging stone they stall in alleys solidify in memory but you wont find them elsewhere.

Smudge their faces into your memory try to catch them on film. Their eyes die in digital; you’re taking photos alone. Moon among the fog, gaze at their hands, study calm faces but don’t forget to look up.

Look up in the last hour, huntress, remember who you are. They engineer arrows into his neck but can’t take the sky; view your marble revenge in relief and remember. 

He's a constant in the dark, a sum of shining parts. Find him in Firenze, in fields of fireflies, find him floating in the sea let him lead you through the cold.

The man to fall for belongs to the night and doesn't grow old.