WHEN IN ROME

 WHEN IN ROME

They say, when in Rome, do as the Romans do—
adapt, blend in, let the ancient streets guide your steps.
And I see it much the same way, in this tangled dance of hearts,
where paths diverge like winding alleys under a twilight sky.
I didn't choose to shake things up, to shatter the fragile calm,
alter trajectories like a comet veering off course,
or pull disappearing acts, vanishing in a puff of smoke like Houdini himself,
leaving only echoes and unanswered questions in the empty air. No, I've grown adept at maneuvering blame, a reluctant acrobat
balancing accusations on a tightrope of half-truths and alibis.
Spinning the narrative like a basketball on the tip of my finger,
effortless, hypnotic, round and round it goes, defying gravity's pull.
Yet I practice exactly what I preach, day after unwavering day—
consistency over time, those elusive, alchemical ingredients
that brew the essence of true LOVE, simmering slow and deep,
transforming fleeting sparks into an enduring flame. Love, that unbreakable connection, forged in the quiet forge of souls,
that couldn't care less about towering obstacles or endless to-do lists,
the mundane barriers that life erects like forgotten ruins.
I would set anything aside—ambitions, distractions, the weight of the world—
to rescue you from the shadows, or simply meet you where you stand,
in the raw vulnerability of your hidden self, arms open wide.
But you're shrouded now, veiled in mysteries I can't unravel,
for whatever reasons buried deep, like secrets in an ancient crypt—
words left unsaid, gathering dust on the shelves of your silence,
and the curtness of your obligatory hellos, sharp as winter's edge. They cut through the haze, but reveal nothing of the storm within,
leaving me to navigate this fog alone, grasping at phantoms.
Until you're willing to call out, to bridge the chasm with your voice,
to make yourself known, truly available, shedding the armor of reserve,
I will carry on accordingly, charting my own course through the unknown—
with or without you, the rhythm of my steps unbroken, resilient.
The ball rests no more in my court than in yours; it's suspended mid-air,
fifty-fifty, a shared orbit waiting for one of us to claim the spin,
to decide if we'll let it drop or propel it forward into the light. In the end, love isn't a game of evasion or sleight of hand;
it's the steady gaze across the divide, the choice to leap or linger.
So here I stand, patient as the Colosseum's stones, weathered but whole,
hoping the echoes of Rome will whisper wisdom to us both—
that in adapting, we might find our way back to each other,
or forward alone, with hearts mended by time's gentle hand.