After we connected with the echo of the gospels, broken hymns Arabic thought after we weaved the finest of tapestries, the holy spirit, Attar's flock of birds shattered the illusion of self-portrait, silence was never an option, the history of my wounds mirrored the pain of your self-inflicted cry, and my voice broke its fast to tell you the moment I began to love you was when your poems made me realize what happened before didn't belong to us.
