a name, with hymn it rhymes, on funerals, celebrations, fiestas and holy days, your silence, I try to interpret like a Mufassir understanding and elucidating the Qoran, but my quietness, my stillness, you render meaningless.
how can I deny the
dreams I have, desire, yearning (insert craving; lust) not often though, cross my heart, to have your fingers wrapped around my neck, your mouth caressing a tempest in my ribcage as the night opens for us and we gasp for air.
after the storm,
I name the moles on your body, Ya’aburnee, the one on your chin, the tiny one on your left cheekbone, Sonnet 147, Khamoshi right below your lips, and my favourite, Medusa, on your right dimple of Venus; this fantasy blinds me.