Rome doesn’t flirt.

It doesn’t try to win you over.

It simply stands there, larger than you, older than you, heavier than anything you can carry.

You don’t walk through Rome. You get pulled under.

At first you think it’s admiration. Awe.

That sharp intake of breath when the light cuts across a stone face, when a church door swings open and you feel your body stop.

But it doesn’t stay that clean. 

You look at marble and it looks back.

You feel the weight of centuries, and it doesn’t lighten for you.

And somewhere in that exhaustion, reverence collapses.

You start noticing the cracks, the broken noses,

the rain-streaked torsos.

You stop wanting to admire. You start wanting to bruise.

To mark it back. To pull it down to where you can touch it.