Colosseum ghosts throw rain-tridents
from rubble grey Roman skies
spears tourist skin to sidewalks.
Umbrella compass leads to La Botticella bar
neon signs blink like eyes in a waking coma
I arrived quieter than the weather,
carrying rain in the seams of my sleeves.
Inside, glasses caught the amber light
while strangers leaned toward their loneliness
like candles bending in cathedral drafts.
Even the walls seemed tired of echoes.
My wife will be reaching for another bottle
to drink herself further from me,
would-be lovers travel to her fingertips
reciting adventures in her skin trade
I do not ask what survives distance.
Some wounds live like weather systems,
circling long after the storm has passed.
Still, somewhere beneath all that ruin,
your voice keeps reaching for warmth
without knowing how to hold it.
Kismet is the trapeze artist on loose wire
network of cables under’sea can
cause pearl divers to stumble
Fate has always looked clumsy to me,
all trembling hands and frayed balance.
The sea keeps its own secrets anyway
not every drowning begins with water,
not every pearl belongs to the one
willing to bleed for it.
Electro beat pulse blends the palette
sounds of red o’er green mute my breaths,
in a city like this, resuscitation is closest to the crucifix
and drinks aren’t measured; only dreams
I watched the room soften after midnight,
voices loosening like collars at the throat.
No one seemed interested in saving themselves.
They only wanted one more hour
where the lights stayed low
nobody asked who they were before the music.
Trouble loves me, maybe so,
and gutter beds are universal,
but she came from the rains
of wet denim and lace
even plastic flowers in vases yearn to bloom
You looked at me
like the storm had finally answered back.
But I was only a woman
trying to warm her hands
around a borrowed glass of red,
trying not to notice
how gently your sadness spoke.
Outside, Rome kept drowning itself in neon.
Inside, we pretended
two strangers could pause a ruin
just by listening closely enough.
Somewhere, 24-hour clock becomes rain-dial
nighthawk love making is
determined by puddle depth,
reading sky’s windscreen wipers
and I’m half past caring
Lips trace my hotel room number
across nape of her neck,
sunrise birds will feather her reply
By then,
even the rain had grown tired
of speaking in riddles.
Morning gathered slowly
along the window glass,
turning neon into something gentler.
I said nothing.
Just let my shoulder rest
against the quiet beside you,
while Rome, somewhere below us,
kept trying to wash itself clean.
