Warning

The archaeologist, her hands red with earth,
finds our words buried deep within dust and dirt.
They have slipped so far into the soil;
they are almost archaic.

Carefully, she retrieves the fragments -
some sharp, glint like spears:
words born of an unrequited love.
Others smooth - seem new - curved in (false) hope.

The shades of clay vary.
The darker, heavier pieces - mine.
Crushed smaller with the pressure;
but our passing was never going to be easy.

The lighter, larger ones yours.
You fought the agony admirably -
always the stronger one. You kept
it together better than I ever could.

And so the pieces are fitted into poetry -
or something beautiful. Not pots or pans
... maybe patterned vases, coloured
to the brim with our voices.

They are shipped off to a museum somewhere;
because love does not change with time -
this mosaic of words needs to be heard ...
our warning to the rest of the world.