We met in a broken city,
where roofs were torn off, windows clung by shattered glass,
the pigeon’s nest, like everything, had been displaced.
Our room lay in disarray, furniture scattered like forgotten memories,
in the darkest corner,
the vases were wilting, dying with the flowers they once held.
The curtains fought against the sun, too many battles waged in silence,
the dishes, mute witnesses, held the weight of empty plates that hungered for more than food.
The wooden floor had turned black, absorbing the years of neglect,
waiting for our return, waiting for us.
Everything stood still—waiting for you and me.
Can we live up to their wish?
Because not only is the city broken, but we are also broken.