To see a place,

to watch its people

walk around

with their Tesco bags

and their baguettes

and their pretty smiles

is nice.

 

To hear a place,

to listen to its birds

chirp and cheer

at the morning wind

and the afternoon rush

and the evening crowds

is nice.

 

To smell a place,

to inhale its aromas

of red spices

and strong perfumes

and fresh grass

is nice.

 

To taste a place,

to consume its moments

of warm coffees

and cold spaghettis

and macaroons on the rooftop

is nice. 

 

But, God,

to touch a place,

to feel the gravel crunch 

under your new sneakers

to feel the cobblestone walls

covered in tangled ivy

to feel the way the lock clicks

into place on the bridge

by the church

to feel your eyes search for moments

but take in years

is so, oh, so much nicer.