1. clothes damp, parched fingertips, we sit before a dried out lake listening to the songs we loved at fourteen while the lovers who drowned here hiss at us.
2. you take me to the rooftop where you first loved our city. i take note of the moles on your face.
3. pottery. we carve asymmetric triangles on the tray and forget to bake the clay.
4. we travel the world together (starting with kashmir), learn stories of the local people. they tell us, the last time they witnessed such love, qais died before layla's gravestone. we don't believe them. love is not tragic, not this time.
5. teacups pressed against our lips on a breezy october evening. you tell me about all your football wins and i love you like a teenager.
6. i read out the list of names i wished i had: zariya- scattering wind; nahla- first glass of water in the desert; zerlin- beautiful dawn and you listen.
7. we fold clothes together. the window pane needs to be fixed but it's december and our blankets are warm. life looks a lot like a decade old dream.
