Some words are just so intimately dear,
I love the vulnerability of them,
and yet there’s an ache for reciprocity,
by the sheer fact you’re standing,
on such a tender branch of expression,
moving only so much as the breeze allows you,
at the mercy of your words being accepted.
That place is torturous,
humiliating and uplifting at once,
to be graced by a zephyr or swept by a tornado,
still, on that branch,
eyes closed and in another place,
lips still moist with your hearts empty,
unafraid and pensive.
How do you express intimacy without being meek,
and show your bones in hope she’ll hold them,
how do you conjure yet another way,
to assure, to inspire, to tell the truth of who you are?
I’m not good at anything but a slow release of my thoughts,
that’s why I’ll immortalise you with prose,
take my time one word at a time,
one thought a day,
and because she’s patient with me
the opus will be epic.
I am saddened at the thought that a whole generation of young women will never have the opportunity of receiving a love letter.
Articulated, be it as poetic as Byron or as simple as a child’s innocence, with love and soul, carefully crafted, paper selection, ink and script, fragranced to suit your temperament, cursive leaning towards you as they cannot contain themselves from their advance. They are brimming to the top with ecstatic elation and a sorrowful hope that their efforts are realised and received.
No, instead, his love is a finger swipe away.
Fragility, is the residue of love,
when you’re caught between anger,
loneliness and a breath.
It’s no wonder we long for the bind,
to be held down by lust,
tied down and imprisoned,
in spite of the lip service to freedom.
Freedom, that illusion,
that place of nothingness,
between a bitten lip,
and a slit wrist,
a nap in the blossom of spring,
a noose in the attic of winter.
Being a slave,
is far more liberating,
far more fulfilling,
than being unnoticed.
Love me then,
with whatever entrapment you want,
with fist and flower,
with tender eyes,
and into your embrace,
willingly, I cower.
When their mere presence smells of desire,
Not a word uttered, not a gesture imparted,
But air thick and wet with perspire.
-Wesam El dahabi.
it’s easy to revisit
on sweaty nights
it’s a piano key tap,
a candle flicker,
from the pits of her, a sap,
his salivate liquor.
there’s velvet hair,
there’s chafe and stubble,
hearts in trouble.
where fingers start,
toes end in appreciation,
a moment apart,
leaves aching desperation.
madness of perspire,
settled with heated eyes,
put out their fire,
with rapture cries.
you’ve got a fight ahead of you
if you think eyelashes
and the sway of your hips
are enough to lure a man
not asking at all through your physicality
but through your being
If you did lure, he’s a boy, not a man and you’re a girl, not a woman.