The Tuscan swing by the cliff is tied to two Tuscan orange trees.

I named one Lola after you; after the way you held my hand, and the way you danced around, the way you made the tea, the way you smelt and breathed. Lola, my lady of sorrows, Lola my sweet-tangy cup of 𝑆𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑖𝑜 𝑑𝑜𝑙𝑐𝑒.

You were the chocolate, swirling in the dark bubbling pot that already churned with blood, you were the life and the demise.

The other Tuscan tree, for how much I feared that I wasn’t the one, I just named Orange. Orange like the glow of the tiny fireflies, the nights we danced in the streets, the nights I bought you wine.

The leaves are sharp and green, the shade of your witty eyes.

It was Lola and orange who held me in their arms. And Lola and Orange told me it was fine when it was your orange tree that was cursed and not mine. They told me it was love, the memories that we shared, they told me no matter how, just like 𝑆𝑎𝑛𝑔𝑢𝑖𝑛𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑖𝑜 𝑑𝑜𝑙𝑐𝑒, you were sour with that acrid taste, it was still love. Because we had memories, and memories hold the one thing that hate can’t plague.

They hold truths and those truths have a name. You called it Nostalgia but I called it pain.

It was Lola and Orange who rocked me on the Tuscan Swing, by the very edge of the cliff, and their leaves quivered and stayed, until the last moment I let the wind carry me, down into that lane again. That lane I call pain.