There’s magic in it. The space between you and me. I like to call that “God” but I know you hate that word. Perhaps “Allah”, a decade ago.
It’s just a matter of air now, how much fits between us.
Freezing the moment, makes it sound bitter, cold, but frozen is desirable, it’s perfect.
If I could write a list, of all the things I’d like to do with you, the list would weave itself into poetry, and I’d have volumes of abundance, lining my empty bookshelves.
And the words would fall away. Because we’re both big enough to know that language has no place here. That long English A’s and E’s can collide in your ears the same way I choke on any Arabic sound beneath my teeth. And yet I feel like I meet you on the center of the page as Latin letters collide from the left with the Arabic from the right.
The story of you is the untethered wild horse, returning to it’s expected.
You are the return to the expected after a release from your captures.
Did you arrive, Habibi?
I’ve been waiting for you.