While the rains drenched the city
we slipped in kisses between its folds
and in its crevices.
We even swam under the shadows of this town
when it had a siesta under a torrid sun.
We scattered our breath in the streets we walked
hoping we would find them again someday,
just as fresh as we had left them.
We dropped our names at each other’s doors,
in falling leaves, under slabs of mist,
on roads that snaked through a puddle of vehicles.
We picked up stones,
wrapped our memories around them,
and placed them back hoping no one had noticed.
We thought we’d come to this place years later,
find those stones
and strip our tales from their backs.
Now, there are no stones in here,
no rocks and no crevices.
Can you lend me a hand?
But before that, tell me,
have you learnt to sift your stories from the sand?