…we searched our lips for.
I told you it’d be something like that.
We were fate, and you were left wanting; forgetting in the nights spent with music like clicking clocks and passing cars. My fingers passed over the fabric of cotton and linen, breathing the quiet air and stillness of forthcoming forgetting.
We’ll pack and wake up in the morning, early.
Jet planes always leave loudly and too late to stop the bleeding, our hearts breaking through glass at a country we’re forced to leave behind–as our age soon will be, we are gone.
And there is nothing but rubble and vespers, memories, to remember we were there.