Our love is like threads of songket and sari—
woven slowly, without haste,
brightly colored though from different hands.

You come from a land
where language and movement are like dance,
coloring days with spices and golden light.
I grew up on a land
quiet and simple,
where the wind knows the scent of warm rice and the first rain.

Our cultures are not patterns easily woven,
sometimes your threads don’t match my weave,
and the colors of my customs feel strange to your eyes.
Yet we choose to keep weaving—
not because it’s easy,
but because we know—
beauty can be born from knots of difference.

Though we have never met,
your words reach my evening window,
and my steps toward your land are carried not by promises,
but by hopes I plant
in the woven gaps of maps,
while you too nurture courage each night,
when screens become the only bridge between us.

Sometimes we quarrel,
like two folk songs crossing rhythms.
But love isn’t about being the same,
it’s about understanding
without changing each other’s base note.

You never ask me to be different,
and I never wish to erase what you bring.
We only embrace each other,
two souls from two lands,
who believe—
even threads of songket and sari that differ
can weave beautifully—
if embroidered into a heart that welcomes them.

This is a thoroughly post-modern phenomenon.

[Breathe, don't be nervous. It's fine. Wallah, you're not doing anything wrong.]

Digitally arranged meetings with ostensible strangers yet with more familiarity than our ancestors could imagine.
An arranged meeting,
a warm greeting,
a sensing,
a feeling.

“Are you Sami?”
“I am,” as I posture for a hug.

[She’s actually more beautiful than I expected. Her ample curls smell like conditioner and sunshine.]

“So you’re Kuwaiti?"
"Yea, I moved here when I was 18, to Kansas of all places."
"To be honest, I had to look up the emoji flag from your profile. My Muslim WhatsApp group helped me out.”
“Oh, okay. So you’re Muslim?”
“Yea, I was raised Muslim; my mom married a Kuwaiti in the 80s, blah blah blah.”
“What? Your mom lived in Kuwait?”
“Yea, kinda crazy, I know, but it’s a small world.”

[Small worlds make the gaps between souls smaller.
Who knew such a small place could leave such a big impact on so many lives?
Certainly neither of us.
Serendipity?
Allah y3alam.]  

“Why do lesbians discriminate against bisexuals? You’d think of all people, they wouldn’t be so judgmental.”
“You’d think, but you’d be wrong. It’s like we have a plague.” Her voice goes on, but my mind drifts off.

[Tortoise-shell glasses, beautiful lashes, manicured eyebrows that frame flickering dark eyes, encased in a forest of curls, legging laced thighs, oh my. ::Deepsigh. Pay attention to what she’s saying! Oh my, she’s my type. This is bad. No, no, hamdilah, this is good.]

“Do you want another round?” the bar keep’s inquiry snaps me back to reality. I interrupt to suggest a change of location. [Perhaps something less commercial, less public, less straight, more private, and more intimate.]
“It’s only a short walk.”
“Yea, let’s do it.”

[By short walk, I mean three doors down from the bar. The perks of suggesting the venue.]

“Shoes off?”
“Yea, it’s habit, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.”

She sits, crosses her long legs, and gives me this look. My heart flutters; I remember my manners:
“Can I make you a drink? What’s your poison? Gin or *****?”
I mix our drinks and think:
[She must like me.
This is good.
I’m glad we did this digital dance to find romance.
What a treasure, finding this post-modern habibi.
Alhamdulilah,
Lucky me.]