Pi, at the end of its endless decimals' grandeur,
meets a human being—who holds a mirror!
Until now, the number, knowing only sway,
has been lost in discovery’s polished way.
No more: it begins—on a human—in front of its eye.

Patterns and unique precision, patternless waves,
new math tides soar, pivot at the cosmos' height,
only to bag the ultimate truth:
Fathima—the first spiritual woman—mooned there first!

Fathima steps forward where nature falls behind,
across the dead end, the irrational chasm she strides.
For the cosmos' deep mind, Earth, the ocean is but a drop;
the rope to the top is the lead—the feminine Fathima’s lock!

Raw Fathima moves; in shadow, nature follows,
clustering atoms span between the two,
only to witness her encrypted, secured fashion—
intact, uncharted, yet fully functioning,
in Makkah and Medina, while she lived.

The red fairies at midday’s spot-on,
the black swans arching rainbows in wonder—
marvel how Fathima deduces, straw by straw,
the maestros’ dream of ascension,
potion-polished, taking Ma pauses in liminal crescendos,
between past and future, here and hereafter—a circular duo.
Limning out chiaroscuro in light and shadow—
nothing like it exists, in plain sight or the world in toto!

Rainbows shaded in, sparking out,
the scent of roses in her veiled black hair:
the cosmos anew glinting off her edge,
deeper quintessence than dark matter!

The blueprint, the intelligent pre-design, rests in her elements.
The breakthrough exponent—hidden in her eyes.
Yet beyond the masses’ gaze,
she remains Zahra—light upon the original way.

Truly, only one feminine form has reached across
the other end of the cosmos' endless highway,
zooming past nature’s hidden gems—the irrational Pi,
the complex chasm—a mathematical goldmine.

Beyond the masses’ eyes and their painted canvases,
shine the daylight and the glowing fireflies of the night.
Viva Mankind! Fathima is the Moon at the highest high!

Rays of light amidst the darkness.
The darkness was neither painful nor soft.
A cold whisper in the air, a gaol—
A visage of a warden wearing a tunica.
His tongue was made of silver, creating an illusion
of haven amongst the dungeons.
He speaks in lullabies of peace,
yet I feel chains tighten with each word.
These rays are not the sun’s, but lanterns lit by lies.
                                
My breath fogs the silence,
as shadows curl like smoke around my feet.
                   The stones remember every step
                   I’ve taken,
                  Yet I forget what freedom used to
                   feel like.

The walls hum his lullabies now,
soft as velvet, sharp as regret.
I reach for the flicker that trembles in the cracks,
a sliver of light untainted by silver tongues.

Better to bleed under the honest moon
than sleep beneath a ceiling of lies.
So I gather the fragments of truth,
and walk barefoot through the false dawn
not toward escape,
but toward awakening.

You smell like summer
You taste like moon
Till my eyes opened
It's almost june

You hunt like runner
You run like rust
Till my skin
Turns to dust

So call me drunk
Three am
I will pick up
What a Shame
Then I'll cry
Whom to blame?

I lost my way
As ocean stray
May locate stars
But as it rains
All my metaphors
Slips away
Whom to blame?

every evening i slaughter the sun.
every evening i cut her up on unforgiving mountain peaks
i dip her blood orange blistered flesh in saltwater;
i do this for the moon.
the sun gurgles as she drowns

it remembers me.
the sky.
the mouth above the mouth.
the lightless gullet where clouds go to rot.

i kneel in the driveway
and my bones click like prayer beads.
i say nothing.
the wind fills in the blanks.

above,
the bruised vault peels open.
something pours out that smells like me—
ozone and old milk and motherlessness.

i know this feeling.
the ache behind the eye.
the tug in the marrow.
the static in the throat right before god speaks
and forgets my name again.

the sky remembers me.
like blood remembers stain.
like salt remembers wound.
like hunger remembers teeth.

and so i let it.
i open my mouth
and taste iron,
and ascend.

not float.
not rise.
just—
dislocate upward
until every tendon sings its own name
and snaps
like wet string.

there is no rupture.
there is no goodbye.
only the soft gulp
of return

I feel a charge in my heart space
like a magnet pulling me towards you.
I hear whispers of past life adventures
when we connect telepathically.
I see visions of our divine energy
curling in synchronicity.
I taste your fantasy on my tongue
with sweet remembrance
of a twin flame finally reunited.
I touch your tender depth
as we expand our connection
through conscious intention.
I know you
before
knowing you.
Welcome back lover and friend.
Let's begin this timeless adventure
again.

I live,
but it is not life.
A corpse cradles your love,
too cold to feel,
too empty to remember
the warmth of a touch
that never reached me.

Your love is a wound,
a thing I carve into my chest,
a knife I hold with trembling hands,
cutting deeper
with every breath.
There is no blood,
only a slow seep of darkness
that fills me,
blackening my veins,
eclipsing what’s left of light.

I wear your love like a shroud,
its fabric too thin to protect,
too heavy to carry,
dragging me deeper into the earth
where the air suffocates
and the ground weeps with regret.
Every step I take
sinks further
into the weight of you,
your absence that clings like rot,
a scent too putrid to escape,
too constant to ignore.

I hold your love,
but it is not love,
it is a thorn lodged in my ribs,
the poison seeping through my skin,
numbing,
filling me with a hunger
too dark to feed.

The silence between us is a scream,
a scream that never cracks the air,
but claws at the inside of my skull,
twisting my thoughts into ghosts,
my words into ashes
that fall before they reach the ground.

I live in the ruins of you,
a ruin that was never built to stand,
its foundation cracked with promises
too broken to rebuild.
And still,
I stand in the rubble,
a monument to your absence,
to a love that was never real,
a love that only took
and never gave.

I carry your pain,
but it is not pain,
it is a hollow weight,
a deep, infinite hole
where my heart should be,
a chasm that screams your name
with no voice to echo.

Still, I live,
but I do not.
I am a shadow of what was,
a flicker of what could never be,
and the air around me thickens,
filling with the stench of a love
that was never mine to begin with.

The pond by your father's place always froze over
The ice always reaching no matter whether the weather was freezing or not.
The silence on either side of the window panes killed you, you said.
You told me the patterns on the glass reminded you of bleeding.

You used to have donkeys, and they always loved you.
Bringing them pears and soft touches behind ears.

I was a boy, still, but it all made sense.
The way that your mouth moved
when whispering memories to me.
I remember that Spring that we fell through the ice.
Jangled nerve endings felt stabbing. Cold knives.
Wet hair. Lucky to make it out.

The last time you saw me you told me, "You're bleeding..."
I smiled and spat once and said I was fine.
I'd tripped on your driveway whilst walking to see you
and busted my lips on your mailbox.
You wiped one ring finger, stilled my moving mouth.
It was only a little. (Blood, that is.)

You wiped it again on my shirt.
You ***!

I wish we'd drawn pictures in the snow with it.

The Winter has claimed me, I think, since then.
Blizzards well up in the corners of my eyes from time to time.
Snowbanks form on my brows when I furrow.
I furrow a lot now.

The wasps in the tree at the edge of your father's place
Stung up your back and neck that Summer. Remember?
Calamine smile, you had me pull out the stingers.
Your dad's debit card, wiped across your back.
"Declined," I said.
You laughed.
And the pond, in my memory, still looks iced over
Even though that was July.
Right after my birthday.

Last month, saw the sign, said your father had sold
          his place. Our place.
             He misses you too.

I wish you here now.

We're all getting old, but I can't let myself grow.
I'm not any smarter, I'm just clothed in cold
And I forgot how to feel the way we did then.

I'd like another plunge, through thin ice, I think.
Anyway, I hate the Summer time.
The heat's too mean.
You know that about me.

She stands at the counter,
flour dusting her fingertips,
cinnamon curling through the air like a whisper
she’s afraid to speak aloud.

A pinch of salt, a dash of thyme—
she throws them in like she’s casting a spell,
but nothing ever turns out right.
Too much heat, not enough heart,
the flavors never fold into each other,
never blend the way they should.

In her mind, another bowl waits—
one no one can see.
She tosses in “too much,” packs in “not enough,”
folds in “too loud” like stiff egg whites,
sifts in “too big” until it settles in the cracks.
No recipe, no measurements, just
a mess she can never quite fix.

She walks through the grocery store
like a stranger in a foreign place,
staring at shelves lined with things
she doesn’t know how to use.
Aisles stretch too wide, labels blur,
and the pressure knots in her stomach
until she turns around, empty-handed.
She just won’t go next time.

She can bake, though.
She knows the way sugar melts into butter,
how vanilla warms a room,
how patience turns batter to gold.
But sweets feel like a confession,
like proof.
So she says she can’t.
Pretends her hands are clumsy,
her cakes always sink.
Shrinks behind the lie
because it’s easier than the truth.

She just wishes she could cook.
Wishes she could make something people need.
Wishes she didn’t feel like a failed recipe.

I can feel it moving
like cold water sliding gently over my skin,
like a breath filled with crystal shards
breathing on my neck
as I sit staring in the endless void above me.
The slip of stone that shifts so softly from my face,
the heat falling like stars around me
as the pale rush fills me again,
coating everything that I thought I felt,
but I can't reach it,
can't raise these hands that were once so strong,
so human.
My heart beats,
the thumb of blood rushing through my veins
is the only thing that reminds me I'm here,
I'm something beyond a memory.
I move through the world, one empty step at a time
trying desperately to fill this shell,
to find all of those pieces
that have peeled away as the years went by.
The mirror stares back at me,
showing me brief reflections of something
that can't be me,
it can't be what I remembered I used to look like,
like what I used to feel like,
the smile that I once used to find so hopeful.
It was shed away with everything
that made me something worth saving,
something worth that brief touch of humanity
that has left me,
that filled these dreams,
filled them until they turned into the nightmares that I live with,
the ones that only seem to stretch
into never ending visions of my past
that I can never relive,
and a future that looks so dark.
I can feel where hope used to be,
where fear used to be,
where a human used to be
before this ghost consumed me
and brought to the darkness,
the sharp edge of life slowly tracing around me,
and leaving me lost, cold and alone
until the world has decided it's done
and rest becomes something I can no longer control.