I have stopped loving you, but my ink still does. 

I have stopped loving you, but I miss you still. 

When I play the songs of our favorite band,

your face pops up in my mind

like a tape of recorded memories.

I haven’t been home for months,

for the last time I did, I was wrapped up in your grey jacket,

flailing the long sleeves in the air as you giggled.

I was the first girl to ever wear your jacket.

I was the first woman to smell like your Mont Blanc perfume.

It’s almost been a year,

and I still trace your signature on that poetry book.

Do you know that 

I still wonder how you knew exactly which poem would be my favorite?

Ready the first chapter of that book,

was writing the first chapter of us. 

I have stopped loving you, but my ink still does.

I have stopped loving you, but my tongue still loves your name. 

The sun sets every day, with the memory of us

on an April afternoon, 

sipping on milkshake,

dancing and singing around in the lab,

with our white lab coats floating behind us like clouds

giving us the perfect aura of two crazy science partners

overdosing on Dopamine.

The oath we silently swore as we toasted is still ringing in the lab,

“for the love of chocolate and poetry…”

I have stopped loving you, but my mother still hates you.

She also still bakes her signature orange cake;

It’s just not for you anymore. 

I think December this year will be a little colder without you,

so will January, February, and March.

I miss our extreme,





senseless discussions of what you should have for dinner,

followed by our arguments that tawouk would be lighter than a mankoushe

I have stopped loving you, but God damn I miss you so much.

How can someone forget his creator?

And I know you don’t believe in God

because according to the philosophers you once told me about,

God committed suicide because of us,

but you are my god.

You molded me.

The art,






and love.

It was all you. 

You were the first person ever to see right through me. 

“Something’s not right. One word answers?”

You texted me that night.

I miss watching you blow cigarette smoke into the air

and how you make letting go seem so euphoric. 

I miss breathing in the shimmer in your eyes,

like the smell of the first rain filling my lungs

with reassurance 

to finally anchor my roots in the safe land of your arms.

I miss seeing that fragile little human inside of the intimidating monster,

the soft heart which held the curtain for hours so that the sun won’t seep into the window

and bother me. 

I miss the type of happiness you gave me,

from the small surprises you made for me,

from the books you almost got me as gifts,

from the French lessons that I never failed to fail…

To the calmness I felt every night you whispered “Bonne nuit.”

The mornings when your eyes eagerly searched for me in the crowd,

the crowd of people who think they know us from “work” but are clueless to the existence of us,

the mornings that came after terrible nights 

you spent holding my sweaty body and kissing my tear-stained cheeks 

as I shook away another nightmare. 

But the nightmare came anyhow,

and you left anyhow,

for the first time on a forgotten staircase as our shoulders swiftly brushed

and I left you there standing,

contemplating how fast endings can be. 

For the second time in a cold forest as your hand dismissed me,

as you walked in the other direction, leaving me

both of us contemplating how painful friendships can be. 

I know I haven’t shown you how much I care, so

is it too late to apologize 

for never admitting that I read your favorite novel,

and heard your favorite songs?

Is it too late to apologize, for never admitting

that you were right the day you told me to keep distance?

I am too close to the fire now.

I thought that having marshmallows would be fun

until the fire caught me,

and burnt me,

and killed me,

and hurt me.

It hurts still,

kills still,

burns still,

and I don’t know how to escape.

I don’t want to escape,

because I can’t deny you, nor the fire.

You knew better than me

that melting marshmallows would be a bad idea. 

I want our Tuesday nights back.

I want you calling my tetateta” again,

because you made home feel a lot more like home,

and you made family feel a lot more like family.

Take me back to the night we secretly planned a revolution,

and never imagined we would live to see it actually happen.

Dear Mister Scarves and Triple Name,

Dear Mister Feather and Moon Lamp,

I want to wake up again to your memes,

and spend one more day, throwing random questions your way.

I want to know more. 

I want you to teach me more.

This time, I promise I won’t panic when you call me love,

I promise to never steal your grocery shopping puns again. 

I was always aware of how much I miss you,

but it turns out that I haven’t stopped loving you, too. 

I will never stop loving you, and neither will my ink.

Leave a Reply