Letters, Poetry

c l o t s

blood looks different on every letter that I write to you. they all reek of my desperation, like your heart reeks of me. my fingers have forgotten  how to move in circles over ridges and falls of your name, but my dreams whisper your name to me at 2:14 a.m.; remember how you left me… Read More c l o t s

Letters, Poetry

Yateem

Yateem(Arabic) : Orphan(English) ‘Umi, It’s been fifteen days you went out looking for Abbu, I count nights with your needle on my fingertips, my blood oozes out in red. ‘Umi, I am still staring into your eyes, trying to read the words in your silent war. I woke up in the middle of my sleep.… Read More Yateem

Letters, Poetry

Le dernier

The last time you were home, the six walls felt like shelter in the midst of a hurricane; we sipped cold coffee toppling with ice cream, took out our paint brushes and instead of the blue galaxy we dreamt of painting in a cloth big enough to hide us from the wars outside, you drew… Read More Le dernier

Letters

Toska

“No single word in English renders all the shades of toska. At its deepest and most painful, it is a sensation of great spiritual anguish, often without any specific cause. At less morbid levels it is a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for, a sick pining, a vague restlessness,… Read More Toska

Letters

The Bouquet

10:13 p.m. Dearest, The roses reached you thirty-seven minutes earlier than they should have, and we both were caught off-guard. Until you asked me the question, I saved my sanity from wandering, wondering why I sent them to you. On some days, life happened to me in such a jiffy that my mind and heart… Read More The Bouquet

Letters

Ode to our death

Dear Lover, It’s been forty days today since I last saw you. It hasn’t been 40 seconds since then when I haven’t thought of you. I now understand the term ‘enveloping’. I stopped holding on to your shirt, I now hold on to my heartache, lest it might spill on my face. I stopped looking out… Read More Ode to our death

Poetry

Death, in waves.

death comes to me, in waves- in the clotting of blood on my fingertips, my lips tasting the same on my wrists- in the crumbling of the letters addressed to you, dying lusty deaths in my closed fists- in the eyelashes of a lover that weaved dreams for me, the Rhapsody now sounds like dirge,… Read More Death, in waves.

Poetry

Across the warfield

Across the warfield, there is a garden- where paper-flowers breathe life, and grow into hearts. Across the warfield, words inked on letters come to life when lit on fire- the ashes mix with blood to form scriptures. Across the warfield, there’s a mountain; where nothing but feet is allowed, nothing but broken hearts sing. Across… Read More Across the warfield