The rooftops light up like every morning;
Her charm intact, untouched for a thousand miles.
Stone shimmers on like white wine in the sun,
But it’s clear she’s missing a half smile.
The same assortment of mispronounced roads
Leading to the same architecture ‘artisanal’.
But less foreign gasps at the much postcard-ed views;
Less people to watch and directions to tell.
She is strong enough to move on but worries
That the wound will fester and the pain won’t end.
But as she dusts herself off and takes a step at a time
She’ll only see a scar that reminds of her strength.