A Week In Rome | AWI series |✔

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On the night that Max took his final breath, I buried a piece of myself along with him. He told me he didn't want me to grieve. But how could I not?

How does one not grieve over the death art? Of poetry? And though it's been many, many years since I last saw his smile and last kissed his lips, when I bend over the edge of Ponte Cavour, I can still hear his musical laughter chime through the air.

Max came into my world like a storm, leaving ruins so utterly magnificent, but he departed from it peacefully. I counted his last breaths, last heartbeats, just the way I said I would. And my hand was in his, from the moment that he asked me to trust him at the Colosseum, to the moment that his cold fingers loosened around mine, and his soul departed to a place that could not stand his absence.

I saw the ember lights in his emerald eyes dim one by one as his time came near, and the life fade from his rosy cheeks. He became weaker, but the smile--oh, his charming smile, remained until the very last moment. Up until that moment, he filled my ears with his sweet words, spoken through a musical voice. And in a late hour of the night, Max faded away, finding home among the very stars that burned in envy of him, and the moon that had kept our secrets and wonders, was now home to the biggest wonder of all: Max.

I like to believe that he was too pure for this world, too beautiful for the eyes of people who refuse to admire beauty.

And as I stand at the Ponte Cavour now, hand in hand with someone I met years after I let go of Max, I realize that it there is no limit to the amount of times that one can fall in love.

I fidget with the wedding band on my left hand, and I realize that what I thought I experienced before Max was never love at all. Max defined love for me.

And though I am now with a man who takes care of me, takes me to dance and buys me flowers, I have learned that no one ever forgets their first love.

The way that I'll never forget Max. His emerald eyes that captured my heart with such little effort. His accent, his allure, everything from the hair on his head to the hair on his knuckles is something I'll never forget.

He wanted to be remembered, and I remember him as the man who had the stars in his eyes and his smile and became my everything.

"Are you ready, darling?" My husband asks from beside me. He is a lot like Max, but different in many ways. He makes butterflies dance in my stomach the same way Max did. His hair is the same dark brown color. But they're different in ways better left unexplained.

And he knows about Max. He's heard every story about my week in Rome, and the adventures after that, and he has a type of appreciation for Max that will never die.

No, I'm not ready. The image of Max standing on the edge, in his black t-shirt and suspenders is vivid in my mind. I can see the ghost of myself through my eyes, which now are framed by wrinkles, running up to the boy and tugging on his arm.

And each time I travel to Rome, I stop by the Colosseum and take in its sweet smell and the lingering essence of Max.

So no, I don't think I ever will be ready. But I have what Max desired for me. Someone who loves me and shows it each day.

My husband's blue eyes are bright as he studies me. And I nod and turn away from the ghosts of the two young adults. Though Max is gone and a part of me went with him, I like to believe that they are alive on the streets of Rome. In its music. In its monuments.

"Ready."

And we walk off of the Ponte Cavour. Memories so exquisite will remain buried in the concrete and the waters, even when I pass.

But that day has proven not to be today. And I do what Max would want me to do. I look forward to my tomorrow.