Hanging in the gardens where
scents of jasmine
share space with
hair that cascades amongst
the dew
you
watch
womanly as women do
as the walls crumble
unevenly,

unleavened bread
does that rise?
does
what ties us to this place
have a place

I watch your face
as a man will
stoic
still.

And then it is written
from our memory
as if
it was never
there,
but
we were
and we are by far
the better for having
known it.