Creative Writing: A Happy Melancholia

Squeaking my sneakers out of the train station,

I find the Colosseum above my eyes,

a beautiful representation of the circle of life

where many perished by blood,

today camera flashes adorn its walls.


They say that the Romans built the world,

aqueducts with water from the sea,

houses made of brick and mosaic-looking clay,

statues as tall as David without Goliath.


My friend holds my fingers firm as my feet slide and skip

in the paving stones of every alley,

blame the rain and its cleansing soul

guiding my way to Vatican City.


Margarita pizza for lunch,

alternate to spaghetti a la carbonara at night,

let the senses taste Nutella in a gelato

when walking back from The Pantheon and its immense columns.


That Friday, bright and shiny,

my friends stressed of wanting to go shopping,

throwing euros down for the foreign country chronicles.

I remember the breeze and how it caressed my pores,

plus the ungrateful smoke of cigarettes,

the “Do you want a selfie stick?” pain-in-the-ass sellers,

to the song that played in my head

while walking one last night through the remains of my spring break.