Postcards from Nicosia

You, you are my Nicosia.

Pretending to be every other city – until you get to the heart of it.

An eternal restricted zone, someone pressed pause.

You, you are the space behind barricades and wire fences, untouched by time.
It just looks like I left it the last time, conserved in a time-space continuum.
Nothing ever changes in here. Sure,
plants are growing and bricks are crumbling.
But they are never green enough.
They are never brittle enough.
If I come close enough to run my fingers across the stones, yesterday is alive and well.

You, you are the city I always return to. A museum, a monument.
Just to take look, just to see if you have finally deteriorated. Because maybe –
if I leave for long enough, one day you’ll just be ruins.

Pompeii’s still standing.