On every blissful morning 

When I wake, naked thighs cold 

In empty sheets. Nasty attitude

Brewed in the solitude

Of a night spent in silence, repenting.

The sin plastered onto my lids,

Gentle and sweet. Like burnt honey,

Cinnamon and sugar, gingerbread kiss.

He is everything I cannot be. Blessed be he

Who dips his fingers into pots of rain water

And turns them into peach wine. 

By Tamara Ramadan

Tamara is an eighteen-year-old poetess and writer pursuing a degree in Literature at the American University of Beirut. Dabbling mainly in themes of loss, love, and longing, she emphasizes the impact human emotions have on the psyche.

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