It hurts in places
I never knew existed.
Like how my fingertips ache,
and a mournful scream
lives in the back of my throat.

There is a black hole
where my heart once lived,
dense and ravenous,
swallowing light,
devouring warmth,
collapsing joy
into nothing.

Some days,
the void feels large enough
to consume me,
completely.

But still,
I wake.
Still,
I breathe.

And somehow,
without noticing,
I’ve grown strong enough
to carry it.
Not because the pain has lessened,
but because it’s changing me.

Sometimes,
the pain wants to cry out
I love you
loud enough
to reach you.

But those words
would fall into a silence
you no longer fill.

I wish I’d said them
a thousand more times
when they still had
somewhere to land.

I wish I could say
I love you
instead of
I loved you.

But if this grief
is just love
with no place to go,
I will ache
in all these new and strange places.
Willingly.

And I will wake up every day,
and breathe, one breath at a time.

Because this pain
is simply love,
wearing a different skin.

Turn off the lights — I’m fighting myself in the dark.
My skin, a caressing sun; roses fall and kiss me
with lip-shaped petals, trying to open me wide.
But they’ll censor you — they’ll look away, so you
don’t shine as bright as you are.

And me? I pluck myself from a group of self-doubts.
At the pace of this age, I slow, though youth fast-feeds
through my hands, trying to unearth green shoots
of heaven’s cheer. A chosen emotion rises — as if my
heart readies itself for a rapture. Earthen hands *****
out dreams from soil. To be called a ***** — or to *****
others? What a question to be.

As I’m plotting in the potting shed, where we shared
hope like dew-struck grass. We watered our dreams
with tears, and have felt baptized in fear. Shaking daily
at the grip of then —as if winter left its bare bones in my
hands. But I’m not ready to net a coy smile, not when my
butterfly net carries extra holes.

As all my hopes lie on the ground, seeds waiting to be
buried in the dark —waiting to grow. The lights of faith
are shut. And must I wait for fireworks to explode across
my sky again, like next year’s celebrations? But I won’t
shut my eyes this time. Yet I’ll stay open, just in case
tomorrow decides to find me first.

My world was once built on a shifting of sand
A fortress of whispers I held in my hand
I guarded its gates and I prayed they would hold
A story of love that was growing so old

But I traded that crown for a different kind of prize
In the service of others, with new, open eyes
I wore a new symbol, a promise, a creed
A red cross of healing for a desperate need

So if you should wonder how I finally grew,
And let go the ghost of a yesterday's you,
Know that a new purpose showed me the light
And led me to love in the stillness of night

-by Majd Saab

All my words are like acoustic strings; all of their emotions
black & white like piano keys. It's love & pain intertwined
My passions all leak at a metronome pace—then suddenly,
it feels like a nosebleed. Being both beautiful & painful.
As I am an email for love, sent with all my attachments.
Like music, it gets all too tedious— as these aren’t poems,
not really— just signatures, kinships inked in flesh-toned
vaults, keen to sound like truth.

I'm vying in so many dry pastures, lost in this unsatisfied
fullness— an emptiness echoing into emptiness. Still, there’s
no shame in surrender; to put everything on the line—
hanging out in the sun. To dry, wrinkle, & fade.

As my pride wasn’t just another persona, somewhere on
the clothesline. I’ve been worn thin by time; knocked down
by life with a clothesline. But still I rise, with my neck back
on the line. Destined to shine, but to you, dearest child…
these things take time.

I’ve got finger stitches — love handed me needles;
the attentions of spiraling vines; some bear grapes,
but not all are ripe with maturity, some just needless.
Burning every bridge while the sky stays divinely nested,
and I’ve tied these knots around my tired heart,
left admiring birds of a feather — but never flying
south together — all bested.

They press your buttons just for their luck to press —
dim suggestions also light up the road to regret
Lessons in subtle form and silent —whatever mistakes
you walk into and out of, never forget their steps.

Hiking with joy into the last light of sunset; yes, we can
fall in love like the sun falls behind a mountain crest —
rising bright by morning, but crying in the dark —
perhaps this isn’t love yet.

And that’s okay.

Two wild tales to tell — there are two stray dogs chasing
pedestrians again. That’s the story they’re telling the authorities.
Meanwhile, on a sunnier day, a ledger’s pages yellow daily —
all outlasting the smoke of all the fires you swore were for your
own good. Cigarette-stained fingers; noir pages of a crime scene
unnoticed — that’s what it feels like, loving someone who’s
stopped seeing you as their focus. Funny, isn’t it? They stole
your heart but make you feel like a thief, for stealing all of their
time. They claimed they needed space, but weren’t they the ones
who first called you, their star?

The mirror in your bathroom is cracked; you can’t wash
it with your tears. But hasn’t the bathwater been quietly
counting them all?
____________

Now, there’s finance to be contemplated — those complicated
relationships, where compromise is contemplated, but then
quietly makes things complicated. But let someone hand me
a sans discussion —they’ll only subtract the font of my love
language, erasing the letters of my love before I’ve spelt them
out. To say we don’t talk like we used to. But truthfully?
We never spoke that deeply at all. As a lot of people still
drown in their shallow thoughts.

The wind caressed the flower, swaying its petals, and danced with it.
It whispered the tale of mountains, valleys, and plains, making the flower smell sweeter and shine brighter .

But suddenly one day, it struck the flower harder and caused it to wither off.
A beautiful story laid with harmony, but ended with agony.

The wind can cause the flower to flutter or fall off; it chose the latter, why?
Again, the wind blew a thousand times, but there was no flower to flutter or fall off.

This void sounded louder than any bulbul's song.
Has it stopped the wind from blowing?
Is the flower not worthy to exist?

The rose I threw into the wind blossomed into a field full of them.
The ghost of you still drapes itself over my hear.
Seeing you today fed not only my eyes, but ensnared my soul.
The sight of you was verily breathtaking, as if air itself conspired to remind me of your awe.

Time...

Tell me — how much does it cost? ****, I don’t know.
I’m just trying to keep watch on the blessings I’ve got —
but more and more, they seem to stretch thin... like needle
and thread, barely holding the seams of me together.

I’m fading in connection. A rock flips — and I’m ******,
yet still trying to show decent manners. A “decent citizen”
in the dirtiest world — where the canopy of utopia is just
the Tree of Life man’s always itching to cut down…to sell
its fruits, to chop its wood, just to make pencils — so we
can write stories about it in our edited history books.

Love…

Tell me — what’s a dropout lover, anyway? Not one
who failed love — but one who stopped trying to graduate
from failed attempts. A degree in hopeless romanticism,
and a Master's in being a bachelor — but if time is really
worth it all, then tell me… what all do you really have?

Just a handful of yourself and a whole lot of doubt.
Now... what’s that about?