I like my labneh
full-fat, whole-milk
heavy with promise,
soft as surrender.
Flaky sea salt
melts on its skin,
olive oil glistens
like desire in the sun.
A breath of za’atar,
a trace of mint,
a brush of thyme
and I am undone.
That’s how I like my lover
ripe,
reckless,
and impossible to leave.
Yummy…

For their ink is not ink, but the distilled venom of memory.
They will etch your name upon the black tablets of time,
where even the rain cannot wash it away
and the centuries will taste it like iron on the tongue.
This is no mere revenge
it is the curse of the storyteller,
and I, child of the witch,
have mastered it.

The passing of people is a wound,
but the passing of trust is a death.
When people go,
they leave their shadows in the rooms of memory.
When trust goes,
it steals the light from those shadows,
and sets fire to the bridges
that could have carried them home.
Trust, once broken,
is a mirror in ruins
even if you mend it,
the crack still hides in the glass,
waiting in your reflection.

Forgive the rough edge of my words
they were born in the heat of a breaking heart.
I don’t need you to tell me it’s done;
I’ve seen the cracks widening,
heard the silence growing louder than our laughter.
The fire has been dimming for a long while,
the touch between us turning to stone,
the moments of wild devotion
fading like old paint in the rain.
Now I wear the emptiness like a badge,
my hands remembering
what they can no longer hold,
my body locked in rust,
my soul aching for the ways you once
turned me into a living flame.
And I miss you
not only your mouth,
but the magic it spoke
in the language only lovers know.

While your soul writhes in unrest.
Cursed be he who walks away,
forgetting the bond, never once looking back.
Should he return, trust him not
for hearts that dared the darkness
will return clad in masks not their own.

Cursed in the religion of the Most Gracious
is he who imprisons a people,
who strangles a thought in its cradle,
who lifts the whip over flesh,
who silences the tongue of truth,
who builds walls to cage the living,
who raises high the banners of tyranny.

Cursed in every creed and scripture
is he who squanders the rights of humankind,
even if his lips murmur prayers,
even if his hands scatter alms,
even if he walks the earth
clutching the Bible in one hand
and the Qur’an in the other.

The first gift you take from this world is a breath,
and the last you give back is a sigh.
Between that drawing in and that letting go
lies but a brief caravan of days.

So be merciful to your heart,
tender with your soul,
and do not weigh it down
with the dust of what bears no fruit.