Your poems no longer talked about the way you fell so gracefully in the cracks of my collar bones — fragile, hollowed as the echoes of a priestess’ word — my chest is a shrine built just for you. Your poems no longer talked about the way I kissed the sunset lights, laid softly on your shoulders; this love has descended from the gods. Your poems no longer talked about pressed roses — dead and desperate on top of love letters, god was I high on loving you.

Your poems no longer talked about these. They no longer talked about us darling; they no longer talked about my rosewood scent on your pillow the first time we made love. They no longer talked about how we chased the sun and descended back to the ground, like cosmic dusts losing themselves.

Your poems no longer talked about us — we are dead. dead. dead — a forgotten language and its metaphors. We are walking on top of a new city, a pile of words buried underneath. Our love buried underneath. You are walking on top of a new city, all new words and a slim fit suit.

I am quiet as a Syrian poem. I am buried underneath.