There used to be
a whirl of a street
on the surface of those stones
now crushed and piled
on top of each other.
Stones. They were once
what our feet kissed
measuredly. I wished
I took each steps to be sacred
because the place held, unpretentiously,
something so holy to me -
like an altar of horizon
dying golden,
or a bay as dark as desert oil,
or your secrets, each as precious
as the pearls of your necklace
my heart a decaplet of oysters
keeping every single one of them.
I can barely remember
why we went there, except
you desired an atmosphere
with a scent of salt.
Now there is only the rubble
an angry sea wants to reclaim from the city.
Definition of destruction - a key of land
pounded beyond recognition
with a decade old memory
not even standing a chance.
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