It wasn't a poem. It was a scanned letter, handwritten in elegant cursive:
He pressed send, expecting a bounce-back. come scoglio pdf
Marco looked out his window. The sky was still dark. He grabbed his jacket, walked to the cliffs overlooking the Ligurian Sea, and sat on the cold rock just as the sun bled gold into the water. He didn’t find his father. But the stone beneath him was warm, solid, and impossibly patient. It wasn't a poem
Come Scoglio