The paper lies empty on my bed at night
And my pen won’t bleed anymore
Brain Dead
My blood is boiling,
My mind is running on a treadmill powered by broken thoughts,
shards here and there
all over the pillows and the sheets.
Soulmates
What if you fell in love with him? You fell in love with him in this whole new world, in this restricted, awfully tight skin. You fell. He didn’t.
Distorted
Now it remains
Just an image, a reflection
All else gone, and she wonders
Was it all in vain?
How Many Times
What is the difference anyway?
here and there feel the same when neither of them loves you back
Preparation for Flight
“Have faith” is ingrained
through repeated assurances
now called upon
by fingers rubbing nervously
Two Suitcases and a Heavy Heart
I buy flowers every Saturday and bake a few cakes; I even adopted a cat. Something is still missing. A carpet, maybe? Maybe, if it were the flying type that can take me back to Makhoul Street. But what if it were? What if I went back?
Maybe This Poem is Meant to be
Maybe when we abandon home too many times,
We stop finding it inside ourselves.
Maybe when we abandon home too many times,
It stops finding itself in us.
Peach Wine
He is everything I cannot be. Blessed be he
Who dips his fingers into pots of rain water
And turns them into peach wine.