If I slice my heart open, you will see flours sprout and roots sewing the pieces back together gently and softly.

If I turn my back to you and offer up my spine as a fishing rod, you will see feathers nesting in between my bones.

If I open up my palm and reach out to yours, you can look down on my life line growing.

My scars are there, unhidden, unapologetic.

Look closely and see how they have healed, untainted by pain, unaffected by loss.

My skin reminds me of your touch and my heart beats singing your name.

But my skin is thick and remembers what it needs to grow brighter.

And my heart is fierce and only remembers how light is something that comes from within and not from people.

This is a story void of metaphors.

This is a tale with no symbolism.

This is a love letter.

This is a love letter to you.

You that you have brought my wilting heart back.

You have breathed the memories of what it feels like to be capable of generous love.

But love is fickle.

And when I say fickle and remember you, I stop myself.

I see how before we were the ghost of something undefined, we were the light of a burning candle in the midst of darkness.

But for now I cradle my heart, slowly, let it unfold, and tell it the story of how it overcame many crashing waves in order to enjoy the warm sun.


Sundays are for lovers*

Come lie down next to me,

my fingers drawing circles in the palm of your hand,

your ear against my beating heart,

your lips drawing breath from my lungs.

Curl up against my waist and fit into my curves like the gods have created your body solely for mine. The sun comes in through light curtains, moving up your arm and throwing warmth onto your cheeks. I play with your hair as you’re caught in between your words and sleepy eyes.

The cat stretches and comes prancing to snuggle under your feet. Dancing shadows emanating from tea cups send aroma into our living room, while the soft screeching record turns, swaying melody in the corners of the house.

You sigh deeply and drift off into slumber,

my fingers intertwined with yours,

my mind at peace,

my heart in bliss.

There are moments of idle pleasure that bring back my soul to life: me bringing you serenity on a Sunday morning, you giving me a sanctuary on an Autumn’s day.


إنت الحب

بتتذكري لمّا قلتيلي بهالحياة ما في شي بهمّ اذا ايدي ما كانت بايديك ع طلوع الشمس. و كيف القهوة لي تعلّمتي تعمليا بأسوأ نهار بحياتك، بتفقد المرّ، بتخسر سرّا

بتتذكري كيف شفت بعيونيك كلّ الحب و دفيت و حنّيت. انت بايديكي حسّيت بقلبي مليان. لأول مرّة كان عم بدق تيشعر، مش بس ناطر الليل يغطّ.

انت علّمتيني شو يعني يكون الشوق والوجع، الوجع الساكت اللي ضلّو معي سنين قبل ما تفوتي من الباب.

أحلى شي شفتو بالديني هو جسمك نايم حدّي، يطمّني وقتا فيق خايفة من العتمة.

أحلى صوت هو نفسك ع رقبتي عم يوشوشني “بحبك… بحبك… بحبك”.

و أحلى غنيّة رنّة ضحكتك انت و عم ترقصي بين ايديّي.

Songs for dirty lovers.

My love for you is unwavering in its strength. It abides by no law of martyrdom and voracity. I thought if you’d feed off me, you’ll garnish my soul with your touch. I wanted to ignite you but I never thought you’d grow an arsenal to burn me down.

My love for you is rooted deep into my skin. It itches to be free but knows of no place to call home. My heart looks for sheets untainted and pure. But everything I touch is left with the smell of you.

My love for you disgusts me. It brings my flaking knees to bend. I hoped I’d cleanse the misery out of your pores, but was left with undisclosed thoughts and locked lips.

I thought my love was enough

Ask me why I love you…

I love you in ways my body didn’t know could oblige. With melting fingertips lingering on your wrists, consumed by the anticipation of hearing your cracked morning voice crawling into my ears. I love you with your open mouth leaning towards my shivering spine that just turns into waterfalls each time you undress me.  I love you with bits of my soul forever lost in your ribcage, happily immersed in your embrace. I love you with famine for the thoughts fluttering in your head on how to surrender in absolute love. I love you with the patience it takes you to hold my arms and breathe serenity into my turbulent mind. I love you with the haste that takes over me when you come out of the shower breeding fields of lillies with each step you take towards me. I love you with the molecules that intertwine to make me whole and the gaps that are filled by the energy that emanates from your heartbeats.

So when you ask me at dawn with your sleepy wonderment about why I love you, it’s because everything that you are, is essential to my existence.

Sundays are for lovers

With eyes half shut, and golden glows falling in cascade on your skin, I draw flowers sprouting from your spine. There are words that send me into a frenzy, and then there’s the sound of you breathing into this morning light. I see you wrapped up in sheets that don’t stand a chance to the softness of your touch and I wrap you up in arms that crave to get lost in you.

My dear, don’t get me wrong, I want you in all the glory of what that word  entitles… 

But when your chest rises and falls with such serenity, to the beat bursting through my veins, know that my walls crumble. And know that when I whisper I want you, it doesn’t just mean I want my skin against yours, it means I want to forget where my skin ends and yours begins.

Sundays are for lovers

Quiet feet touching under the soft covers as arms come closer and goosebumps dance together on our spines. All senses intertwined dancing on the rays of the sun, shyly creeping through the curtains. I turn to you, hide my face in the bone that holds the curve of your shoulder and the softness of your neck together. And I breathe you all in…


  • mhm…”

Little snapshots of moments dangle with perfection: coffee boiling, you in a white shirt, standing on your toes, spoon in your mouth talking about nothing at all… If I could choose to be stuck in a single loop for all of eternity, it would be this one… you laughing in the kitchen on a Sunday morning.