Your smell is a warmth
I can’t touch
but feel in every breath.

The air carries your smell to me,
like a secret message
only I can understand.

In every breath,
I feel closer to you,
as if your essence
is the thread
that weaves us together,
stitching my soul to yours.

I want to smell you even more,
to breathe you in even closer,
to let your presence
fill every part of me.

I want to live in a world
where your scent is the atmosphere,
wrapping me in a love so deep,
where the universe itself
holds us together.

The pupil of your eye
is like a black hole—
please consume me with your pupil
and make me eternally yours.

Yes, I know
even black holes evaporate.
But fear not,
for I will evaporate with you,
into eternity.

Sometimes, I will hug you,
hold you so tightly
with the force of love—
like the force of gravity
fusing atoms inside the sun.

Our souls will merge,
radiating light
to the galaxies.

Other times, I will hold
just a single finger of yours,
and it will feel like the spark
that starts a chain reaction
in a nuclear reactor—

powerful enough
to ignite a warmth
that spreads through every part of me,
filling my world
with light and heat.

My love will reach every atom of your being—
touching the physical with my lips,
the unseen with my heart.

And beyond the atoms,
my love will reach the mysterious force
that binds them,
the force that shaped you
into the soul I treasure.

With my soul,
I will connect to yours,
beyond the visible,
beyond the known.

Every drop of your sweat
is like the nectar of flowers.

But you are not a flower—
you are sweeter and more beautiful than that.

And I am not a bee,
for they taste nectar from every other flower.

I am yours alone,
devoted to no other.

Let me taste your nectar
and make me only yours.

I was at my uncle’s house,
new to the city and just a teenager.

One afternoon, someone’s shoe was stolen from a mosque—
an incident I didn’t know about,
and I hadn’t even visited that mosque at the time.

That night, I went to the mosque to pray.
As I prepared for my prayer,
someone grabbed my collar
and accused me of being the thief.

They judged me by my poor appearance
and the fact that I wore similar-looking shoes,
which I had bought from a store, not stolen.

That day, my self-esteem about my looks was destroyed,
and my social anxiety began.

A mob gathered proudly, ready to punish me.
The noise was so loud
that no one could hear my pleas of innocence.

Fortunately, the call for prayer saved me—
temporarily.

The mob decided to beat me after the prayer.
They took me to the third floor,
made me stand by a large window to pray,
and surrounded me so I couldn’t escape.

For a moment, I thought about jumping out the window,
but I wasn’t brave enough.

Trembling in fear, I prayed to God,
begging for salvation
because I was innocent.

After the prayer,
as they prepared to attack me,
I spotted my cousin in the distance.

I ran to him and explained everything.
He confronted the accuser
and forced an apology out of them.

They said sorry,
and I forgave them,
but their apology couldn’t heal my shattered self-esteem
or erase my newfound social anxiety.

Even now, whenever I see a thief, robber, or hijacker
caught and beaten by a mob,
I feel deeply sad.

Even if they committed a crime,
they deserve proper justice
and the right to be heard.

I understand some people vent their frustrations
by punishing criminals,
but mob violence isn’t justice.

A mob can never establish true justice.

My plea to them is this:
at least, don’t feel proud about beating someone,
even if they’re a criminal.

Today’s full moon is so beautiful.
But I don’t enjoy watching the moon alone.
I want to watch it with you.

Though now, I don’t even want to watch the moon anymore.
I just want to watch you,
because you are even more beautiful.

I grew up in the shadow of my mother’s cries,
a symphony of pain echoing through thin walls.
My father’s rage was a storm I could not calm,
locked away in my room, a prisoner of helplessness.

I trained my ears to listen for the silence,
for the absence of that horrible sound meant safety.
In the sweltering heat of summer,
I turned off the fan, closed the window,
sacrificing comfort to keep my vigil.

The stillness was my shield,
my ears scanning, always scanning,
for the sound that shattered peace.

I wondered, if my mother had been different—
empowered, independent, unyielding—
would she have escaped the blows?
Would I have been spared the scars of witnessing?

But no, her submissiveness was not the crime.
The fault lay in the hands that struck,
in the heart that chose cruelty over love.

And yet, I confess, I dream of a submissive wife.
Not to dominate, not to harm,
but to prove, to myself and to the world,
that gentleness deserves tenderness,
that softness is not a weakness to exploit.

I will love her properly, care for her deeply,
respect her fully, treasure her words like a melody,
and hold her thoughts as close as my heartbeat.
I will be kind without condition.

For if I do not, it would be as if I blamed my mother
for the sins of my father.
And that, I cannot bear.

Yes, I celebrate the empowered, the independent,
the women who rise, unbroken, against the tide.
But let us not forget:
a submissive woman is not a flawed woman.

She, too, deserves love, care, and kindness.
She, too, deserves to be safe,
to have her voice respected,
her opinions valued,
and her dignity upheld.

For the fault of abuse lies not in the victim,
but in the hands that wield it.
And in my hands, I vow to hold only gentleness,
to break the cycle,
to honor my mother’s tears
by creating a world where no one has to cry.

Every night, after everything that happens during the day,
I want to fall asleep holding your hand on my chest—
sometimes smelling it, sometimes kissing it.

And eventually, at the end of my life,
I want to die this way:
holding your hand on my chest
as you feel my last heartbeat.

When you reply with a smiling emoji,
it feels like I’ve won a war.

But I don’t just want to see your smile on chat—
I want to make you smile
and see it in real life.

That would make me feel
like I’ve won a world war.