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.