purged

purge me
of this guilt that rests
above my heart like a
stone
falling down a mountain
in submission

I haven't the time past
biting my nails
and wondering if it could have been
different

the door is unlocked,
the door unlocked?
my keys are of no use now
it swings open and I see the
hall's green carpeting
and crumbs.

purge the guilt
the guilt of scattered crumbs,
my bitten nails,
and time
wasted in pursuit of
you.

Stifled

I see the whole wheat dough in the fridge stuffed into a pita bread bag for later usage. And on the left, in the door of the frigde, lies a huge wad of gum, waiting to be chewed after dinner.

The house is empty, my parents are gone out on some errands. I should be reading but the day is long, I wait. And when I shut my eyes, they burn.

A three year contract isn't so bad. But if I leave the country...

a year ago today

disconnect

take
me to a place where I can hear the wind
in dimmed lights and through beaded curtains
pushed apart by the breeze of my
movement. I'll buy a quill and pad and ink
from the cluttered quiet Arab shop on
the street down from us. The smell of musk and
sound of jovial children overpower me.

to
and fro I walk on that narrow street
from the first time. Watching flowers
bud wilt die bud
and the tree branches being undressed, reaching out to
me.

change
is inevitable, I know. Walk over unpacked escaped mud
being pushed to a side on that
same first street. Strands of your hair
flitting in my mind. Mine in the wind. The
street is hollow, echoes not my voice, my thoughts.
repeats repeats repeats – it never stops

rain
patters onto the dusted sidewalks – I
want to step under it, to protect just one spot
of this street – but rain trickles into the crevices
and removes every memory of you.
and the wind steals my echoed thoughts, holds them
to her bosom. Presses them into these lines.
it's a wind that follows me into my dreams.

I will lead you down this garden path
and abandon you.

Dear

If I would ask myself the reason of my hate for you, I could not provide an answer. But in a way I've hated you for as long as I've known you - it has been years. I no longer see you as anything but a barrier to my success.

My eyes shut as fingers type idly. I notice it is time for a nail cutting session to take place. I reload, I reload again. Nothing. My word document has white spaces, not only margins. My words are nothing more than white spaces. Your words, I don't care for your words.

I said I was a coward because I shirked the words I wanted to say the most: I hate you. Now, now I am a writer.

The search

How can he be nameless but branded still?

Hope burrows under my skin and festers, refuses to leave me in my misery. Oh, your words don't hurt much anymore. I've traded this love for something greater but with the fluidity of the market, who knows how long it'll last.

I have seen Truth and turned my head away. I've loved falsehood for these 20 years, a sickening affection. We all search for those turning points that will make us real. Have I found mine? I need to know, have I found mine. Who will decide for me?

Hope of finding another brings light to my face. Hope for You.

Nothing more

The quiet house shivers in the wind, protects me from everything but my self. The humming of the radiator - or the computer - lulls me into an ever-growing pool of fatigue. Closed eyes, a vague smile.

I am hanging on every word you say. Even when you say nothing at all.

humbled

I suppose this was bound to happen. A culmination of all that has ever been painful can fit on the top of a pin.

Oh yes, I know I make life more complex than it ought to be. I know that tomorrow I may not remember what I felt today. Perhaps I should do away with these words that crowd my senses and make me blind to what really is. I did what you asked me to do. I feel no different.

My greatest pain is to be left behind. But you haven't hurt me, really. You've just given me one less reason to rise in the morning. One less reason to breathe.

Awake but still I'm dreaming

Are minutes nothing more than miniscule portions of time that steal fallen shards of my soul while we travel in opposite directions?

Sometimes I feel the ugliness of my self tightening its grimy hands around my throat so that I can no longer see. I look at my lighted face three years ago today and wonder whether I'll ever feel the same. My cheeks have hollowed and my friends have married.

Can I tell this to the world? I may not be beautiful, but I do not lie.