My hear is an abandoned church,
but it still echoes of the verse from the choir last heard.
and my floor still drenched from the tears of joy
from the tear of loss
of those soulmates,
of those heartbreaks,
of those dull aches,
And my breath still reeks of
it’s been so long since my doors were closed
and as far as the healing goes,
i’m still trying to be whole,
for I’ve been blessed
for I’ve been cursed
for being the kind that just feels too much.
If I could travel back in time,
and tell (the younger) me
that you exist.
From all the letters,
I never sent…
an imaginary friend.
You would’ve enough words by now
To built a house out of.
and If doors could talk and windows could weep,
they would cry you a song and it will echo from every corner,
I would’ve have been a better person
had I known you sooner.
Because I will never get over Le Petit Prince *tries not to cry*
This is not just a letter
nor just a poem
or a blog post.
This is an apology.
edited and revised tens of times
till I could feel the words etched in my bone.
This is an apology
for being locked up,
for not being happy,
for not accepting,
for making this place a battle field,
when it should have been;
…away from home
but still… a home.
This is for mom,
I can never say this to you in person
so writing it down seems right.
I am sorry.
for calling at midnight and crying over phone,
for believing that being stoned would make the pain go away.
I was wrong
and I am sorry.
I am learning be strong,
to not be afraid to run from,
to keep my door open
and the lights on
for all the new possibilities.
And each time you think of me,
Know that I think of you too.
And every night when I close my eyes in prayers
I come home to you.
I am a tree.
I was created to reach for the sky,
with my roots still in the ground.
to stand tall, yet generous.
I am a mother
I create life
I help you breathe.
I am not a last resort.
I am a home,
I was built to save
to forgive …but not forget.
I don’t forget. I never forget.. but you do.
so I’ve a weird habit of assigning smells to almost everyone.
my grandma smelled like winter.
not that she was mean and cold
but when i think of her,
I remember the way she used to hold
her coffee mug on the cold winter days
its been a while and the memory’s all blur
but winter will forever smell like her.
my childhood best friend was a Muslim
“the kindest” a soul ever could be
I remember on every second page her textbook
was a cleanly drawn new moon
that looked like letter “C”
she was everything of a best friend, a girl would ever need
she forever in my head, will smell as beautiful as her “id”
it was a mid summer day and the roads seemed new
there was a protest of some kind,
no vehicle in view,
till I answered my door bell…
I was cover with a sweaty arm around my neck
my lover on my doorsteps, he looked like a wreck
he walked for few hours just so we could meet
my lover will forever smell like sweaty yet loving arm pit.
I fell in love with your hands with the fist hello
the way they reached out to mine
strong yet gentle, your hands as they held mine,
I feel in love with your feet when they accompanied my toes.. step by step, side by side, along the dusty gravel roads and when I tripped on the empty spaces of the four chambers and a beating drum inside my chest, I was feeling blue..
your arms carried me home and I fell in love with it too
your legs never complained no matter how many times they had to run around to reach me
and your face never frowned, you’d smile and you’d teach me
and your spines gave me all the warmth it could… Every way possible, it would!
As I was waiting so desperately for a call that said you are fine.. I got a message that read, you are back from the war with more than just scars…
my swing.. your arms..they are important but not as much as your beating heart
with no limbs and barely any face.
Darling, I love you still as much.