She asked me, how would you like your coffee?

I answered:
Black — two spoons, two sugars, please.

She smiled, a smirk dancing on her lips.

I confessed:
Once a fool told me,
“Black makes a man good in bed.”
Time proved it nothing but a myth.

So, dear,
let the sugars remain
to sweeten a man’s heart
and soul.

Hannah
Nathan, you look like a warrior.

Nathan
Yes, dear… though no one told me which knee earns the Emperor's approval.

Hannah
You’re a fool, Nathan.

Nathan
A practical one
I’ve been polishing the ironing knee.

Hannah
(laughs) Of course. That’s why your trousers gleam while your honor wrinkles.

Nathan
When the Emperor owes you his throne, knees are merely decoration.

Hannah
This world is ironic, Nathan
But only for those still pretending to believe in it.

If I gave them sight,
they’d curse the gift,
find shadows in light.

Their hearts are sand
forever dry,
a grasping hand.

I wonder!

So I guard my gaze,
let lashes veil
a fragile maze,
where dignity can quietly prevail.

As if he had broken his promise
and slipped away,
as if eternity itself
had been a secret covenant between us.

“Ahmed, son of all,”
his mother whispered,
then folded her voice into silence
for silence was gentler
than the weight of evening.

O Houriya,
did you not see?
Today the country gathered its sorrow,
and from every house a cry rose
a child carried away,
a child returned to dust.

From birth, a woman dressed in dreams,
awaiting the man
whose touch would discover her hidden notebook,
whose fingers would wander her pages,
fondling each line with tender curiosity.

At last, love arrived
but only for a brief embrace:
not long enough to quench her hunger,
not enough to wipe the dust
from her waiting scroll.

Now the night holds her confessions,
her moans of longing folded into the dark,
her body whispering its ache
to the silence between the stars.

O night, will you grant me peace tonight,
or must I pray the sun never rises?

Not a girl
but a woman,
where flowers burn,
where chocolate melts
into velvet dreams.

A woman
that is what I knew,
her secret pages
calling my fingers to scroll,
each word a hidden chamber,
each sigh a locked door.

Hiding mysteries,
she is the one I ache for,
the one my longing
chants its name to.

May carry truth or deception,
but silence alone keeps the truth untouched
The truth is untouched.

Eyes meet, shadows speak,  
questions coil in tender air,  
truth hides, sharp, unknown.  
Our silence—both wound and balm,  
bridging what we fear to say.

Stop and hold your breath, rewrite longing on my chest, dreams carved in stillness.

You, the ink, my final draft
a script where love writes itself.

We met at the chambers
at the chambers, at the chambers,
where crystal holds fire,
where golden drink forgets the hour.

We spoke in riddles,
we spoke in circles,
of law and of madness,
of prophecy dressed as love.

We agreed not to agree,
we agreed not to agree,
and our pride rose high,
like twin banners in the hush of night.

Wine loosened the floor,
wine loosened the floor,
and tipsy, tipsy,
we danced as if bound by a spell.

Then your voice became flame,
flame upon flame,
and you begged me
touch, touch,
turn the secret page,
scroll the hidden script of your soul.

I answered, Madam,
listen, listen,

I am the witch’s son.
My sins are shadows,
only shadows,
that breathe against your spirit,
that whisper, whisper,
to awaken your fire.

They rise, they kindle,
they bend you toward blaze,
and when your heart burns too brightly,
I quench, I quench
as the blacksmith quenches steel
in the midnight water.

So I am done,
done, done.
And you
undone,
undone,
forever in the spell.

I said, "See you next time."
And the next time came.

She sat far away
with a drink in her hand.

"I hate cheese," she said.

Fifty-five, a weathered soul, adrift,
No hearth to warm, no loving gift.
A silent ache, a lonely sigh,
Where gentle hands once warmed the eye.

Thirty-five years, a fleeting dream,
Of hopes and joys, a whispered gleam.
A family's promise, softly spun,
Now scattered fragments, lost, undone.

The windswept past, a whispered plea,
Passengers gone, eternally.
A life's ambition, now a tear,
A barren landscape, filled with fear.

The warmth of love, a distant star,
A vacant chair, a silent scar.
The hands that built, now cold and bare,
A weary heart, beyond compare.

No comforting embrace, no loving hand,
Just echoes of a life unplanned.
A journey's end, a silent plea,
For solace found, eternally.

A whisper soft, a glance so bright,
"You're beautiful," a fleeting light.
Each girl delights in such a sound,
A fleeting praise, on hallowed ground.

But deeper still, a woman yearns,
Beyond the words, the praise that burns.
Not just the blush, the whispered grace,
But a true love, a steadfast space.

For beauty fades, the bloom will cease,
And fleeting words, like summer's breeze.
A love that's lived, a heart's embrace,
A truth that lingers, time and space.

She seeks not just a fleeting sight,
But a love that burns both day and night.
A bond that's strong, a soul's true art,
A love that's lived, within the heart.

The spoken word, though sweet and fine,
Cannot compare, to love entwined.
A truth that lingers, deep and true,
A love that's lived, for me and you.

Joy's a cunning, whispered charm,
A flicker bright, a vibrant arm.
Sadness, too, a subtle art,
A tapestry of aching heart.

The sea, it recedes, a whispered sigh,
Yet echoes linger, deep and nigh.
Present still, though gone from sight,
A phantom's grace, a moonlit night.

And in this gloom, a sunlit spark,
My spirit dances, though in dark.
Sadness's shadow, soft and deep,
Cannot steal the joy I keep.

The eyes, they slumber, still and meek,
No tears descend, no words they speak.
My sorrow's trace, a fading hue,
A whispered promise, me and you.

The heart, it beats, a steady drum,
Though whispers soft, the silence come.
A quiet strength, a whispered plea,
To find the light, eternally.

A crimson tide, a whispered plea,
A sacrifice, for all to see.
My heart's deep well, a fervent stream,
To you, my love, a sacred dream.

With trembling hand, I raise the cup,
A libation, pure and up.
My soul's own flesh, a holy form,
A love's devotion, to take its storm.

For in this act, a truth unfolds,
A courage born, where sorrow molds.
My every deed, a fervent prayer,
To prove my love, beyond compare.

The wine I pour, a symbol true,
Of all I've given, all I do.
My sacrifice, a whispered vow,
My deepest love, in every bough.

A testament, to fervent heart,
A love's embrace, a work of art.
My soul's own flame, burns ever bright,
To show my devotion, pure and light.

This holy form, a solemn grace,
A sacrifice, in time and space.
For you, my love, my guiding star,
My every breath, my soul afar.

Who first taught words to burn with love?
Who carved the longing of man
into the dream of a face?
And how shall man repay
with coins, with silence,
with songs too frail to touch your flame?

He entered the stable of kings,
thinking the nearness of the throne would crown him.
He wore the saddle of glory,
and tasted the grain of another’s destiny.

But the soul cannot be tricked by garments,
nor the heart by walls.
Essence breaks through every mask.

So when he opened his mouth,
the sound that leapt forth was not praise,
nor hymn, nor neigh of majesty
it was the cry of his own nature,
a bray echoing the secret:
“You are what you are.”

Oh Lord, the question hangs, a heavy stone,
How does a son of man dare speak such bone-deep tone?
To claim in earthly form, a sacred space,
To find within a body, God's own grace.

Is it defiance? Blasphemy unbound?
To elevate the human, hallowed ground?
To see the folds of skin as text unseen,
A holy writ upon a mortal queen?

He sees the shadows dance, a whispered lore,
And traces lines where secrets lie in store.
The curve of wrist, the hollow of the knee,
Become a landscape, wild and utterly free.

He feels the rhythm pulsing, strong and true,
The vital drumbeat that he kneels unto.
A living prayer, a silent, heartfelt plea,
Within the temple of her energy.

Each sigh escapes, a breath of sacred air,
A melody unheard, beyond compare.
Each touch, a spark, igniting from within,
A sacrament of love, absolving sin.

He's lost within the gaze, the gentle hand,
Adoring beauty he can understand.
No gilded altar, cold and far away,
But warmth and breath within the light of day.

The flesh, so mortal, fragile, and so frail,
Transforms to something that he cannot fail
To worship as a wonder, brightly shone,
A living altar, claimed as his alone.

But is it worship, or a selfish need?
A claiming of devotion, planting seed
Of earthly passion, twisting pure intent,
To serve a longing, heaven never sent?

Or could it be a glimpse, a sudden flash,
Of God's own beauty hidden in the flesh?
A recognition of the spark divine,
Reflecting back, in every curving line?

Perhaps the Lord, in wisdom vast and deep,
Allows such words, a promise He will keep,
To show that love, in purest form conceived,
Can find the sacred where it is believed.

So let the question linger in the air,
A challenge posed, a burden hard to bear.
But let the beauty, whispered and so low,
Of earthly love, its sacred meaning show.

For in the crooks and curves, the pulse, the sigh,
A son of man may glimpse eternity nigh,
And find, perhaps, a truth he can embrace,
God's light reflected in a human face.

The soul is heavy, a stone upon my chest,
I long to lay it down, to find a place of rest.

An old man drifts, with eyes like fading flame,
Seeking the shadows of dreams that bear no name.

He murmurs of bargains, made under moonlight,
Of stolen joys purchased with the soul’s own bright.
“This weight,” he says, “presses slow, presses low,
But it may vanish—if only you choose to go.”

He offers a peace, soft as a sigh,
Yet the price he asks cannot meet my eye.
Not gold, not gems that dazzle or blind,
But a treasure more secret, beyond time, unconfined.
A tale unspoken, a fire untold,
A spark eternal, that never grows old.

The shoulders of your throne, so sit and cross yourselves.
Raise your head, above all earthly selves.
Pride shines bright upon your brow,
For humble hearts know little now.

This is my heart, I laid it down,
Upon the path of your renown.
If it should weep, or cry in pain,
Feel no sorrow, it will rise again.

Not pain it cries, but tenderness,
Beneath the feet that I confess,
Hold all my loyalty and grace.
I love the pride upon your face.

Advise me not to let it go,
Forbid such words, and watch it grow.
Each cell within me starts to hum,
When your approaching footsteps come.

Your walking here, an honored tread,
Deprive it not, or it is dead.
No mercy show to longing eyes,
A look, a smile, a subtle guise.

Walk onward, do not turn away,
For they will follow, come what may.
I fear for them, not for myself,
Your powerful steps, like precious wealth.

You are the Queen, so rule with might,
And take our loyalty as your right.
Without an army, you still reign,
Our hearts beseech you, ease our pain.

Torment us with your beauty's sting,
Know that denial deeper things.
Your judgment, fair or not, I crave,
Your sweet content is all I save.

Consult your heart, and only it,
Let love's own counsel be your wit.
The fairest roses bloom anew,
From every step you take, it's true.

Choose what you wish, a fragrant prize,
And give to me, before my eyes,
A single rose, however brief,
To cherish through my joy and grief.

The lover pampers, then withholds,
Demanding more than stories told.
My heart, in chains, I can't deny,
I call to him, he passes by.

And I amazed, my heart so strong,
Softens to him, although so wrong.
It endures, though free, it's true,
But it submits, only to you.

Not wood or bone, but something root
Deep in the earth, a magic thing,
That makes the listening spirit sing.

Each note he plays, a hidden door,
To memories we knew before.
A happy laugh, a tear that fell,
Stories the heart remembers well.

The sound, it washes clean and bright,
Like sunbeams chasing away the night.
It calls to feelings, lost and found,
Safe in the flute's enchanted sound.

He plays it true, he plays it clear,
Wipes away all doubt and fear.
A simple song, a gentle breeze,
That rustles softly through the trees.

Let your own heart become the flute,
Let love and kindness bear their fruit.
Then all the world will understand,
The magic held within your hand.

Made swirls and lines, a crazy trick.
Not pictures neat, of birds or trees,
Just messy marks upon his knees.

The rain came down, a heavy weep,
For vanished souls, gone to their sleep.
It fed the grief that grew inside,
Where willow branches, deep did hide.

He hushed his pride, kept still and low,
And called to God, in gentle flow.
He called and called, with burning heart,
Until it felt it fall apart.

A whisper came, a light so bright,
"Your peace is veiled from common sight.
Only a love, so strong and true,
Can find the quiet, kept for you."

Given form, a breathing whole,
Lord's gift, body and soul.

This frame, it bends, it starts to fade,
Life's journey, a weathered parade.

But deep inside, a light remains,
The soul, it sings, it entertains.

It knows no time, no worldly stain,
Forever pure, a constant lane.

The choice is yours, where love will lie,
To fleeting flesh, or spirit's cry?

I stopped loving on that day,
When I saw the wall that lay
Between the vows and love’s delight,
Locked in war by day and night.

Love arrives and the ring departs,
A wedding breaks the tender hearts.
A cruel exchange, a bitter trade,
A promise bent, a dream unmade.

I stopped loving when I learned
How joy is bought and trust is burned;
It gives, it takes, yet leaves you bare,
The gold is gone, the weight still there.

I stopped loving, for I knew
My sun and storm were theirs to choose.

A fragile thread, too weak, too thin,
To bind my heart, or hold me in.

She spoke of silver in my hair,  
A tarnished crown she couldn’t bear.  
If grief has painted strands with time,  
Then moons must fault for nights sublime.  

Each tear I shed spoke of my loss,  
Each dream a wake beneath its gloss.  
Reprove my truth? Oh, let it stay,  
We’ll echo dusk, both turned to gray.

Love isn't just a sweet soft kiss,
Nor how many times you feel such bliss.
It's not the touch that quickly ends,
Or fleeting comfort that it lends.

True love's a warmth that softly stays,
Through quiet nights and busy days.
A gentle echo, deep and true,
Long after the sweet kiss is through.

It lives within, a tender glow,
A quiet river's steady flow.
This gentle feeling, deep and vast,
Is made to last, forever last.

A void resides within my soul,
No treasure to bestow, no role.
What I lack, I cannot prize,
My heart, a barren, empty guise.

No love I offer, cold and stark,
For love unreturned leaves a bitter mark.
A fool I was, a foolish plea,
To give and give, eternally.

Life's harsh lesson, etched in stone,
Kindness now, a path unknown.
For kindness given, unreturned,
Leaves wounds that fester, unreconciled.

And if you're late, my patience wanes,
No sorrow felt, no empathy strains.
Your shirt, half-open, a careless grace,
Reveals a world beyond this place.

A world where fleeting moments fly,
And love's true worth, we barely try
To grasp, to hold, to understand,
A fragile thing, across the land.

A feathered sting, a bone-deep ache,
My breath caught, for goodness sake.
An arrow's flight, a sudden blight.

I pulled it free, the wound still raw,
And turned to see, ignoring law.
Whose hand so sure, brought pain so pure?

Not when the barb ripped flesh and bone,
Did life depart, and I was flown.
But when I knew, the eyes of blue,
My dying started, and it was you.

They say youth fades, when hair turns snow,
They do not see the heart's true light.
If only they could truly know,
The passion's ember, burning low.

The soul holds fast a secret plea,
To keep the spirit wild and free.
Hearts live and beat, no matter years,
Beyond the whispers and the fears.

When eyes behold the one they love,
The world around blooms like a dove.
The pulse awakes, a trembling beat,
Like dawn arriving, fresh and sweet.

This silver hair, a gentle veil,
Covers a truth that will not fail.
Deep in the heart, a fire's core,
Burning bright, forevermore.

Come closer, dear child, and listen to me,
A simple truth whispered, for all eyes to see.
Not in loud battles, or crowns on a head,
But deep in the world, where power is spread.

Much gold sent by coach, on a long, winding road,
Brings loss and regret, a heavy, sad load.
In times of grim war, the enemy takes,
In peace, sneaky thieves, for their own greedy sakes.
So much money vanishes, swift as a dream,
A fortune just gone, a sorrowful stream.

But listen to this, a power unseen,
More strong than a king, or a grand, legal scene.
Give me the threads of a nation's own coin,
The flow of its money, where all things conjoin.
Then let others make laws, or draw up a decree,
For I hold the pulse of the land, wild and free.

Yet, beyond all this, a truth softly sleeps,
A power so tender, the whole world it keeps.
Look at my child, with bright, hopeful eyes,
My child is the true might, under all skies.
Their spirit, their future, their simple pure way,
Is the power that governs this world of today.

So come closer, my child, let your mind understand,
The true forms of power, across every land.
From gold disappearing, to wealth's hidden hand,
To the small, growing life that lights up the sand.
These lessons are waiting, for all souls to see,
The real strength that shapes all that's meant to be.

I am her *******, humble, soft, worn thin,
A silent witness to her hidden life.
I’ve known her body’s secrets, close and deep,
A second skin, I clung to flesh and bone.
I have tasted her sins, the bitter proof,
Felt the deep tremor, held the quake of thighs,
A vessel for unspoken, urgent needs,
The silent echoes of a hurried touch.
I have worn scents of nights that would shame saints,
Of raw desires and whispers in the dark,
The heavy perfume of a world unseen.
Each stain a story, etched into my cloth.
Now, press me closely to your patient ear,
And I will speak what only I have known.
My fabric holds the truth, a living scroll.
No hidden part of her escapes my grasp.
I will name every man, each grasping hand,
Every woman too, whose waiting lips did part,
And the precise hour, when they broke her open,
To spill her secrets, whispered in the night.
I hold the ledger of her pleasure, pain,
The hidden history within my weave,
and the very hour when her heart opened wide.

To free oneself from boundless chains,  
Dismiss the weight of others’ reins.  
No judgment shapes the core you keep,  
Your dignity unfolds so deep.  

With kindness met, let kindness flow,  
A quiet strength to softly grow.  
Depart from scorn, let peace reside,  
Your worth is etched, not falsified.

I spent my life weaving my sails,
And when the dream was complete,
Thirst swallowed the sea.

When I shattered its wood with my hands,

The rain returned
And that was my sin.

Fourteen years old, a time so new,
I heard of love, a word for few.
My mother, father, said it true,
But not the love I looked for, through.

Night and day, in books and rhyme,
I searched for answers, all the time.
Just four small letters, plain and clear,
But what they meant, brought me to fear.

One morning, on my school way,
A homeless woman, old and gray.
Her eyes like glass, a broken view,
"Young one," she whispered, "Listen to this."

"You search in vain, you seek it wrong,
You must walk this tunnel, dark and long.
Go in alone, where shadows creep,
Some go inside, and never keep
Their minds quite right, they lose their way."
She turned to mist, and slipped away.

I stood there stiff, with shaky knees,
Heard echoes deep, inside the space
Was that love screaming? Or just pain’s trace?

Then faces moved, a shifting light,
I saw her there, so clear and bright.
She glowed, a ticket in her hand,
A victim too, in this strange land.

An arrow struck my pulsing heart,
Another tore my soul apart.
And still I walked, the path untold,
Into the hum, a story old.

The tunnel had no end, no sign,
Just unseen hums, a scent so fine
Of old, old rain, a whispered quest,
My own voice spoke, putting to test:

"Love isn't found, it finds your soul,
And leaves a wound, beyond control.
A mark that never truly heals,
But beautiful, your spirit feels."

I never saw that woman more,
But in the dark, I hear her roar
Not at me, but with a grin,
Like she knew all: the way out, further in.

In shadows deep, she bore the flame,  
Her woven grace, none dare to blame.  
Within her arms, my grief would fade,  
By her truth, the world is made.  

Her heart’s a well of honest tide,  
No insult dwells where love abides.  
When I do love, her soul shall mend,  
The woman holds what earth defends.

Your hands compose an echoed hymn, a whisper sung in shadowed dim. No brittle notes, no fractured tune, just soft-sweet murmurs, worn in bloom.

Where silence thrives, your fingers speak, a fluent warmth, both strong and meek. Each brush unfurls a secret art, the quiet lexicon of heart.

Knees snapped backward,
forced into worship without choice.
Was it triumph, or was it hunger
that made you loom so big and tall?
Did you drink the pleasure
of frightening the small?
Monster black-furred tyrant
you thrashed the skyline
to clutch a young heart in your fist.
But even kings have rivals.
The lion wears a crown
dripping with other creatures’ blood.
The ram carries prophecy
etched deep in the bone of his skull.
The bull dreams with one eye open,
hooves stamping the earth into gold.
All rulers, beast or man
hold their toys
until the toys grow teeth.
And teeth, once born,
chew tomorrow into shape.
The mind alone
is the crown that lasts.

Three women at the river’s edge,
bare feet digging into the cold,
playing that wicked game
hunting guilty pleasures,
dragging sin from her dark bed,
laughing loud, trembling wild
in the ruthless lap of lust.
Their hands don’t just touch
they carve borders into flesh and bone,
claiming, mapping,
finding fierce truths in each other’s fire.
Behind them, a desperate cry:
Don’t stop. Don’t ******* stop.
The river doesn’t care
she rages beneath their skin,
this Love they name a curse and blessing both,
the song tearing loose:
Oh my God, oh my God,
oh my ******* God
don’t stop, you savage witch, don’t.
**** all men and their chains.
The water shudders
bearing the heat of fevered bodies,
waves crash like a scream,
wild, sharp, relentless
******-waves breaking, breaking.
At the river’s ragged edge,
they spill their longing like blood
holy, savage, untouchable.
This is their cathedral,
their war-cry,
and no shadow anywhere
dares claim they weren’t here.
Love calls.
Love burns.
Love breaks everything.

Between question and answer runs a river of blood
each question births its own fierce reply.
Silence is a shroud we drape over the self,
and in the age of ****, silence is a crown of fire.
Poetry sheds its skin of metaphor, naked and raw;
the question strips the poem to its bleeding bones.
Strike a poet with your thought
but beware, deepen your metaphor before you knock.
I have heard the clumsy verdicts of my time
ears deaf to beauty, tongues sharpened as swords.
I answered harsh when the hour demanded battle,
sweet when the story’s soul cried for grace.
Rhymes are prisons and wings alike;
sometimes I pass through as a ghost,
more often they seize me in a tempest,
and I pour the hunger of my craft into their veins.
I drank deep from the storm of eloquence,
kept wild bees buzzing in the nectar of the line,
drove wolves from the bloodied pool of metaphor,
wrestled lions in the arena of chaos and form.
I have played the lute that blooms like a war cry
for the cities and for the Bedouins’ raw, untamed howl.
I have read to poets whose hair turned to silver ash,
while their verse remained green
poems born in joy,
and poems that claw at the guts of grief.
Some verses are prayers that thunder like storms,
some are lust’s own savage offspring;
from these, I have cleansed myself
like washing away a dark, ancient curse.
Poems are women, each a flame,
each a world of light and shadow.
And beauty itself is a poem
a young woman distilled
from the fierce nectar of femininity.
Yet still
I devour poems.

tight enough to hear my heartbeat in its seams.
Sir’s scissors slid up my thigh,
cold bite tracing the vein,
a slit opening like a whispered threat.
Safety pins hold the wound shut
for now.
The hem’s been hacked raw,
frayed strands kissing the tops of my stockings,
air licking skin that should be hidden.
Three shots of Chivas burn through me,
liquid courage, liquid sin.
I lean in close enough for you to feel my breath,
close enough for my lips to graze your ear,
and I say,
Some women wear lace for beauty.
I wear it to watch men bleed.

The priest came to the king,
bowed, and begged:
“Ban alcohol, sire
it’s destroying families, the whole ralm.”
The king said, without hesitation, “No.”
As the priest turned to leave,
the jester whispered:
“You should’ve asked while he was drinking.”
The priest nodded.
Too late for wisdom.

I am her *******.
I have clung to her hips like a worshipper
and knelt in the dark between her thighs.
I have drunk her sweat
until the salt burned my threads,
and I have learned her rhythm
how she sighs before she sins.
I have been the altar for her midnight prayers,
the veil for the tremor of her flesh
when the moon pressed its cold kiss there.
I have swallowed the bite of his teeth,
tasted the copper of his hunger,
and carried the scent of nights
she will deny with her lips
but never with her body.
I am the silk that trembled
when her fingers shook,
the lace that remembers more
than her mouth will speak.
And if you dare press me to your ear,
I will tell you
how she laughed when she came,
how she wept when she wanted more,
and how I still ache for her skin.

Who quenched the light in the eyes of the seeing,
and taught him that trust is a blade
that turns upon its bearer.

He who now seals his heart
was once a house with open doors to every wanderer,
until he gave them sight
and they repaid him with blindness.

May the darkness they planted in him
take root and choke them,
and may the spirits cry their names
through a night that shall never know dawn.

Aman

Come closer
my father once told me
that between my *******,
between my lips,
between my thighs,
lies a power without mercy.
I have learned to wield it like a blade.
My mind is the theatre,
my thoughts the stage where you are both
the hero and the sacrifice.
I will not simply kiss you
I will bind you,
thread your breath through mine
until you cannot remember
where you end and I begin.
I will lead you by the hand into velvet darkness,
make you believe it is safety,
then whisper the truth in your last moment of doubt:
I am the enchantress they warned you about,
the poison they served in a crystal glass.
They call me femme fatale,
but I am older than the name,
more ancient than fear.
I do not ****
I make you walk willingly
into your own beautiful ruin.
I blow a kiss, goodbye.

They asked me about the human soul.
I smiled,
and leaned close enough for them to feel my breath.
They say man is a microcosm
and the heavens the vast world.
But, love, they have never wandered your inner night.
The outer sky is a candle’s flame
fragile, flickering
while inside you,
I have sailed an endless sea of dark honey,
its tides made of dreams and pulse and breath.
The true vastness is in the chambers beneath your ribs,
where my hands have learned the maps
no star could chart.

She came to me beneath a crescent moon,
her hair perfumed with night jasmine,
her eyes heavy with the knowledge
that I was born of spells and dark milk.
I laid her down on the silk of my shadow.
The stars leaned close,
each one a witness to my mother’s prophecy
that my touch would burn without flame.
Her breath caught in the hollow of my throat.
I kissed her as the desert drinks rain:
slow at first,
then with the hunger of a century without water.
The witch’s blood sang in me,
chanting words no priest would dare to hear.
Her body opened like a forbidden garden,
and I,
its serpent and its angel,
entered with reverence and ruin.
When she cried out,
the night shivered.
Owls turned their heads,
the wind held its breath,
and the moon closed one eye in envy.

O She who rises from the womb of the sea,
crowned with foam and crowned with flame,
whose breath stirs the tides
and whose glance births blossoms from barren stone
Bearer of the golden girdle,
keeper of the wine of longing,
mother to the song that awakens the flesh,
and the dream that burns in the marrow.
Aphrodite, hear me.
Pour into my heart the wine of its desire,
and in the cup of that union,
let there be peace.

I like my labneh
full-fat, whole-milk
heavy with promise,
soft as surrender.
Flaky sea salt
melts on its skin,
olive oil glistens
like desire in the sun.
A breath of za’atar,
a trace of mint,
a brush of thyme
and I am undone.
That’s how I like my lover
ripe,
reckless,
and impossible to leave.
Yummy…

For their ink is not ink, but the distilled venom of memory.
They will etch your name upon the black tablets of time,
where even the rain cannot wash it away
and the centuries will taste it like iron on the tongue.
This is no mere revenge
it is the curse of the storyteller,
and I, child of the witch,
have mastered it.

The passing of people is a wound,
but the passing of trust is a death.
When people go,
they leave their shadows in the rooms of memory.
When trust goes,
it steals the light from those shadows,
and sets fire to the bridges
that could have carried them home.
Trust, once broken,
is a mirror in ruins
even if you mend it,
the crack still hides in the glass,
waiting in your reflection.

Forgive the rough edge of my words
they were born in the heat of a breaking heart.
I don’t need you to tell me it’s done;
I’ve seen the cracks widening,
heard the silence growing louder than our laughter.
The fire has been dimming for a long while,
the touch between us turning to stone,
the moments of wild devotion
fading like old paint in the rain.
Now I wear the emptiness like a badge,
my hands remembering
what they can no longer hold,
my body locked in rust,
my soul aching for the ways you once
turned me into a living flame.
And I miss you
not only your mouth,
but the magic it spoke
in the language only lovers know.