we took such care of tomorrow but died on our way there

i think god doesn’t believe in love -

the irony; 

or the silence of accumulation; 

all’s reduced to a dead poem of suffering, three lines to commit the killing

of self. 

spit on our hiding places for they’re cursed with longing 

‘they never returned’, the walls resound with expectation. 

and the way he grabbed her thigh with urgency, not knowing 

that soon they will be gone.  

i wish to know the science of reversals, to turn myself back to 

the breath of an old cry.

love wasn’t quick enough to open its mouth 

like doves buildings the nest too late, they died with the coming of winter 



*Title inspired by poem of Warsan Shire