A Syllable In Time


Words were first made to express not to communicate,

Stories, lies and excuses came later..

But there are commas in life

When words are transparent and mute,

You urge to put all thoughts,

The echoes of rivers,

The glare of snow,

The distance of the sky,

The last drop of rain,

The weight of your heart,

The weightlessness of your heart,

The depth of the eyes,

The colors of smiles,

The waves of hair,

The last breath before the first kiss,

The cemetery of cigarettes when I think of you..

All in one sentence, one word, one letter, one note,

In one gesture

It goes down and on

Till there is no sense

Only silence..


When I look at you, and you smile,

Then ask me to talk,

Perhaps that’s trying to describe that moment..

That spec of time

That I want to stretch and tear

And make it into a puzzle

And put it back together

With you

Again & again..


She steps out on a cold Sunday morning

A snowflake lands on her cheek

It melts as I melt behind the bar

I think she spent at least forty minutes pampering herself

And that is in my humble estimation of time

For I don’t know how time functions when a brush or a finger or a snowflake touches her face


She steps out on a cold Sunday morning

She wants to feel pretty; loved; or just worthy of love

When I just want to feel

The Night She Called The Stars Out

After a long day, I like to sit alone for a few hours. On a balcony that has shrunk over the years and had the tongues of hemlocks visiting every now and then. Nobody has stepped on that balcony for months, nobody but me.

If you know what fire sounds like at night, when the cold wind blows on it as wood keeps getting thrown in it; then, you know what heartbreak means.

If you have ever sat at night on your own and lifted your head to the skies, hoping to see a few scattered stars but only finding your reflection in the emptiness of what floats on top of you, then you know what loneliness means.

Tonight I sit on the balcony with my music blasting high and my spine fusing with the back of the chair, making us one. I won’t be able to get out after this. There is a fire under my balcony, and all of the neighbors are throwing in their overused furniture and the books they have never bothered to read… And  I am listening to the crackling wood, the burning paper. I turn my head up to the skies as my tears fail to fight against gravity. The foundations are cracking under my feet, and my thighs are blending in with the blue, plastic chair’s feet. I raise my head but there are no stars around to see, and as the stones crack and I’m about to fall, I scream to the sky to bring out the stars… If I’m going to die, I get a last wish. A shooting one:

“When will this hang-over end goddammit.”

Naked Reflections

My tears feel heavy sometimes

when they hang on tired lashes

that want nothing but to protect eyes

that wonder farther than they should.

His time is timeless

but mine is paced


calculated by the minute

and all spontaneous combustions

amount to words discarded in their immediate fashion

a fashion that lacks structure and logic

but holds more than what is said.

He lays his head lightly on my wide shoulders

trying to put down the weight of the world there

but placing the dust of a crumbling world

on an already crumbling one

merely replaces one tuft of dust with another.

Yet he lays his head there

and I think to myself

about the last time I saw someone crumble to ash

in front of me

and rise again   naked enough to almost be whole

and his nakedness helps mine

crawl out of a hibernating state.

Time is only timeless

when you start counting years

you wasted trying to figure out who you weren’t

instead of accepting who you truly are.

I am self-defined and self-evident

in all that I choose not to do

and when I do something

it stems out of affection

dissociated from the nakedness of flesh

that doesn’t involve a woman’s touch

and what I lack in verbal fashion

I make-up for with eyes that see beyond the flesh.

I see everything so vividly

that nameless colors emerge

circling around question marks

you fold yourself into

so comfortably that I feel inadequate at times

in speaking with semi-colons

instead of cut-off full-stops.

All of this doesn’t foreshadow

the truth of the matter:

It is a struggle to be who you are

when all around you

people are trying to figure you out.




On Being A Mobile Object


I want to not be an object of affection to many people, but apparently, it’s not in my hands. Here’s the thing, if you feel something towards someone; then, by all means, go and tell them that. But, don’t bother with someone who isn’t going to bother with you.


Don’t take it personally. I might kiss you, or even be intimate in other ways. But, I won’t be doing that because I’m interested. I’ll be clear enough, by telling you about the girl I’ve been struggling with.

*inhales cigarette smoke dramatically*

Do not offer me your bed.

Do not offer me a head.

I do not need to be fixed or healed.

Do not tell me what feels better, I wouldn’t care anyway.

Do not tell me you feel bad, because I cried all night.

*Exhales smoke from her nostrils*

Do not speak.








I’ve never been this naked

I’m comfortable with myself within her radius of being

The pearl grasps life within the radius of the burning Lotus

The flame of affection burns the white lotus till the end of being

And thus, what I say, do, or think does not define me


She vividly sees:

Every flaw,

Every tattoo,

Every insecurity.


However, there’s a struggle:

We come from different species.

Copulation becomes hard.

Yet we get along very well

It’s not much of a struggle

It’s who we are

It’s how we define ourselves, or at least try to.

And defining one’s self is an ongoing struggle

So, I take my word back

It is a struggle,

but what isn’t ?


It’s happening again,

the universe is shaking.

Time for landing outside of time and space.

My head lands a soft landing on her shoulder

and thus the weight of the world on a single shoulder

Non-existence never smelt so nice from where my head rests

the bigger the thought, the softer the landing

She defies logic and the laws of nature once again

On her shoulder, weight seems weightless

Time seems timeless

I look at the clock on the wall,

the arrow stops moving

I stop moving

Everything in the room is static

I’m resting in two pieces

The sweet abyss of life

Nothing can define me now

I’m indefinable

We’re indefinable.


I look at her,

With a tear hanging from her eyelash

She vividly sees all that there is to be seen

I’ve never been this naked.

Five P.M With Rona Shalhoub

Rona had a five p.m. appointment with her therapist. It was a Friday. She knew she was going to cancel at four p.m, to call up her friend Bam, have three beers, and 11 shots of tequila. She laid her head on her old pillow and thought about getting a feather stuffed one. She stretched her body on the worn out mattress and wondered how much a medical one would cost.

Rona decided to take a cold shower. She prepared the shower playlist, placed the post-its with the song lyrics written on them inside little baggies. The first song she chose to sing was Thriller by Michael Jackson. She figured she would be able to hit all the hiccup sounds and screeches, and she did – thanks to the cold water.

She locked the door to her shitty apartment and stumbled on Bam’s foot. He stood in front of her, smiling his idiotic smile. She just sighed, grabbed his hand and they both ran towards the bowling bar at the end of the street. Rona knocked on the opaque glass door. Andre opened a tiny hatch, winked at her, and welcomed them in as usual. Being the first costumers every single day, earned them free beer and tequila shots.

Rona’s Casio watch ticked, it was 5 p.m, and she hadn’t called to cancel her appointment yet. Her phone rung the moment that thought crossed her mind.

“Rona, where are you?”

She thought about an answer that wouldn’t sound evasive or rude. “About to get drunk, Tania. How about you call it a day and come join me and a couple of other friends.”

Tania flicked her hair, as if Rona could see her. “You are no longer my patient. I can’t keep on cancelling on other people for you. You never show up. But, yeah, I’ll join for drinks. Where you at?”

Rona smirked. “In that case, you are no longer invited bitch.” And she hung up.