أوْهام هائِم

فما زلت أناديكِ يا جميلتي

يا عشقي.. يا مأساتي

فما زلت أناديكِ.. أراكِ.. أتخيلكِ

أدّعي بأنني بين يديكِ

وأنا قد أوشكت أن أنسى لون عينيكِ

فما زلت أناديكِ..

وما زلت أبحث عنكِ..

أضعت نفسي في الأرجاء.. فلم أجدكِ

أيا جميلتي، هل أصبحتي وهمي؟

أخبريني، فقد سئمت الشك.

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Wanderlust

She’d wake me up every once in a while. “What is it?” I’d mumble. “Wanderlust!” she says; her eyes wide open, I could see the world through them. She’d grab my hand, insisting that I hum a song while she does a little pirouette. She would whirl and twirl incessantly until she was too dizzy to stand still. Last night, I watched her closely. I watched her body collapse on the sheets; her arms wide open and her wide eyes closed. “Where are you, now?” I whispered. “In the sea,” she said, “I’m drowning.” And tears fell upon her cheeks.

For Those Who Left

For those who left,
not with the intention of leaving,
but having fate to blame,
I wish fate is doing you good.

For those who left,
with a piece of my heart,
with an impact still remaining,
I wish you knew.

For those who left,
with a part of my sanity,
and left me wondering,
I wish you took a moment to explain.

For those who left,
by God’s intention,
leaving everyone with memories,
I hope heaven is where you are.

Strange

“Strange,” I say as I grab a sweater. “Strange,” I say to my dry, papery skin, the afternoon fatigue, the hair on my pillow, the mysterious bruises dotting my legs. “Strange,” I say to my aching bones, the chest pain, the headaches. “It’s all so strange,” I say to how fragile and weak we are.