Florentine Exile

Written by Atticus Payne

(Twitter: @janelleyapp)

“And when I thought of Florence, it was like a miracle city embalmed and like a corolla, because it was called the city of lilies and its cathedral, St. Mary of the Flowers."

― Marcel Proust

To my dear Italy:

Far from Florence I lie as I write to you this summer. How strange a thought this would be for our two souls two whole summers ago, where all seemed possible — how intoxicating, the scent of a whole race’s glory, cast wide over one clamouring city, one endless song of light. The gates

had been thrown open to travellers young and old, from near and far, simple or scarred; save for one sacred condition: an aweful heart.

That summer, and the one that followed, drunk on the wine of midnight’s penning blaze, I

danced in your revels, I

sang songs of joy, and

swallowed my throat’s blood, so keen on burning everything I had for

your bonfire flame.

Don’t you remember? I gave you everything. Would have given more if you’d asked.

I climbed to the tops of your spires, ran from building to building and soared under your watchful gaze. I scraped layers from my very bones on every one of your whetstones, just to look right in that Florentine haze. Didn’t you see?

You loved me.

The world was dark and cold outside, with you, the one light, and your walls teemed, overflowing with eager travellers begging to escape their pain. You took each of us in, let us learn,

grow,

sin —

Let every willing wick be called an artist, told us to keep these traditions thrumming through every darkened age.

For two summers, I was one of your own.

Then the darkness recoiled at last, tendrils slowly pulling away. The paths were clear once more, well worn, they led, all, to you. With clear day to guide us home, and bells calling us to fix the rubble, we left that city of light, the gates thrown open as always.

I had to go. I told you so.

Said I’d be back next summer, my love.

Rubble restored, I ran once more on the path, so sure I’d kiss my lecturers once more. Those fountains of knowledge that’d once begged to flow, I dedicated my steps to every one of those,

And at the gates, you said no.

Once we’d left, that was it. No more would the fountains flow for free, no more would you take those from afar,

because there was not enough misery.

Your light was not needed anymore, you reasoned.

We could find our ways in our own place.

And so, I was turned away, for reasons no one could say,

exiled from my beloved Florence’s day.

Do you still remember me, I wonder?

Think of me every now and then?

Did you ever care?

What must I do to have my renaissance again? What name must I bear?

Must one now be born as an heir? How far back have you stepped, my love?

There was once such hope, such progress.

I beg you to reconsider. For the time that we shared, two glorious summers past.

About the Author:

Atticus Payne is a teen writer and self-dubbed professional daydreamer. A Best of the Net nominee, she is also the publication director of Healthline zine. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Outlander Zine, immortal journal, Paper Crane Journal, and others.

Atticus can be contacted @janelleyapp on Twitter.