The last morning in Rome does not feel like an ending.
It feels like a pause.
A breath held.
Before the exhale.
I wake before the sun.
Again.
Habit.
Or anticipation.
The room is gray.
Pre-dawn.
Quiet.
Still.
Marcus is awake.
Sitting in the chair by the window.
Silhouette.
Against the glass.
He does not turn.
He knows I am awake.
He knows I am watching.
You leaving already.
His voice is low.
Rough.
Sleep-heavy.
No.
Just thinking.
About.
Home.
He turns.
Looks at me.
Eyes adjusting.
To the light.
To me.
You ready.
Yes.
He stands.
Walks to the bed.
Sits.
Edge.
Mattress dips.
It was good.
Yes.
Hard.
Yes.
But good.
Yes.
He reaches out.
Touches my hand.
Resting on the quilt.
Warm.
Dry.
I did not break.
No.
You did not.
No.
We sit.
In the gray
