Rome Receding

Sunlight bruised the alleys,

hot stone walls pressing close,

sounds sealed behind shuttered windows.

I wandered narrow streets

where voices clung like humidity,

smells too sharp to swallow.

Each step echoed debt, tight and grating,

a city I wore like a coat

that didn’t quite fit.

Photos lay scattered on my desk,

colors bleeding, too loud,

a place whose edges cut into my skin.

I say I’ll never return.

Not because I forgot the beauty—

but because some places

carry a weight you can’t unpack.