Marrakesh
Rosemary, mint, and donkey dung perfume the hot, dry air. Hawkers croon siren songs as I meander crowded alleys, ignoring patterned baskets, side-stepping the slippery fabrics of women’s djellabas, stopping once to run indifferent fingers over dye-soaked rugs. I came to Morocco against my will because he was bored with Italy, needed something less civilized, less European. I told him I wouldn’t go and woke to an empty bed. The soft Amalfi light turned cold; waves smashed against the rocks. I followed him to this ancient place. Now I’m alone because it wasn’t Positano he’d grown tired of, but me.
Photo Credit: Jasmine Halki
This was most impressive. So full of exotic background, with a final line that has real punch.
This could be a tutorial on the form. Brilliant.