The paper lies empty on my bed at night
And my pen won’t bleed anymore

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.

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.

Now it remains
Just an image, a reflection
All else gone, and she wonders
Was it all in vain?

What is the difference anyway?
here and there feel the same when neither of them loves you back

“Have faith” is ingrained
through repeated assurances
now called upon
by fingers rubbing nervously

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 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.

He is everything I cannot be. Blessed be he
Who dips his fingers into pots of rain water
And turns them into peach wine.