lost in the memoirs of each cobbled stone
lies an unimportant truth
never spoken before.

a chewing gum falling off someone’s mouth
a cigarette flying becoming cushion for steps that will later pass.
a stolen kiss, a given one,
and tiny dots of blood from knees scratching themselves in the stones.

lips touching the metal from where the water pours
and old photographs of people, with the passing of years, becoming obtuse.
sounds of calls to prayer sleep inside the squared stones
as if they always were here, born here, never came/never gone.

a spilled tea– sugar clinging to the rocky surface as if in love,
a golden necklace accompanied by tears that were shed to find its way back home.
one dead, shot for not returning a debt he had,
and uncountable footsteps bearing stories no has ever heard.

truths are different here, and so are lies;
whole worlds crumbling under the pressure of,
“I would– if I could– if I had the chance.”


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