I’ll take you to the crazy fortune-teller who told me you were the one
make you feel the goose bumps I got every time your toe brushed against mine
show you the patch of grass in your garden above which the fireflies always hovered
help you see how unforgettable the scar on your nose looked under a candle’s flame
draw you a bath with lavender bath oils and the perfect balance between hot and cold
drive you to the pier with the windows down so you could feel the air behind your ears
hold you like I did the night the fire came raging  at us but,

for now, I’ll sleep begging God to let me feel you next to me once again.

All I do is think of you
how it should be me with you.

He is the one who loves you now
leaving me with memories of you.

I have no one to blame but me
I wish I had done more for you.

He is the one holding your hand
leaving me with dreams of you.

You came to visit me tonight
to tease me with the scent of you.

I will wait till the day you’re mine
till then my soul belongs to you.

They bribed me with promises of Audis and poverty reduction.
A six-figure salary, insurance, and free weekends.

They lured me with Prada bags, Chanel Shades and scarves by Hermes.
Vacations in Nice, transits in Paris, and business trips to Beijing.

They said I could meet the Dalai Lama, Bill Gates and the Queen of England,
have wine with Sarkozy, break bread with Al Gore, and kiss Prince William.

They dangled real men, real love and post-marital affairs in front of me
and gave me dreams of seven husbands and no divorces.

They convinced me to grow up and walk across the stage,
and their promises made me smile as I crossed over to the other side.

Today, I lay in my hammock wishing they’d promised me a job as well.

Eat the fourth cookie.
Bring back that fuzzy green sweater with lint ***** so stubborn
that even the strongest lint roller couldn’t break the bond they have with the sweater.
I know you pick your nose in public.
You stutter every time I ask who lives on Mamaroneck Street.
You have burping contests with yourself while you’re on the toilet.
I don’t care how you clip your toenails on today’s newspaper.
I still read it after you’re done.
I love that you paint each nail in a different neon color,
eat chocolate chips and green tea for breakfast,
and salt your apples.
You cry every time you watch Titanic.
I agree Rose should’ve moved to the side and shared the plank with Jack.
You rap to Baby Got Back fifty nine times in a row.
I wish we danced to it more often.
I wish you would tell me what you write in your red book.
I know you pretend you’re Beyonce in concert while working out,
and think Michael Buble wrote haven’t met you yet for you.
I love that you keep the ticket stubs from every single movie we see in the tea jar under your bed.
You smell of cologne every time you walk into the house.
You don’t know how to whisper. You never have.
You tell me you’ll be back by noon but don’t come back till 7 p.m.
You use your knitting needles as chopsticks when we order sushi,
And don’t stamp any of the letters you send your mom.
Even though you have seven wallets, you keep all your money loose in your bag
and throw away all the pennies in the trash.
You pretend your belly-fat is a puppet that can talk and sing,
And you flirt with the waiter for extra hot sauce.
You hate it when I use your cell-phone

And every night you kiss him goodnight at the train station.

I walk home from the train station,
with a concoction of his cologne and cigarette smoke coated breath surrounding me.
Even the strong floral scent of Pleasures Intense doesn’t drown it,
or the haunting feeling of satisfaction and shame.
I can feel his rugged hands grasping my waist,
and his raspy breath around me.
The black cashmere scarf sticks to my sweaty neck.


I move my hands through my tangled hair and enter the house.
I hope Jacques doesn’t notice my missing hair tie.

The everyday hustle bustle of the market place was at its peak
vendors shouting out to people,
“ORANGES FOR 100RS A DOZEN ONLY”
a child licking an ice cream cone, holding onto his mother’s shirt.
a man walks down the street wearing a yellow patterned shirt.
a boy argues with a vendor over the price of a shawl he is buying for his girl.

BOOM

And the world slowed down
buildings collapsed
debris flew everywhere
dust rose like a menacing monster ready to swallow the earth and everything it contained
in one
    big
           gulp
Just like it had slowed down the world sped up
peoplerunningeverywhere-aboycryingforhisparents-ahandreachingo­utfromunderthedustandbricks-peoplestumblingaround-trippingoverthe­piecesofblownupcarts-awomancluthesablackshoeshefoundamongstthebri­cks.

BOOM

The earth exploded again r-e-v-e-r-b-e-r-a-t-i-n-g    for   a    while
exploded dynamite lay on the ground shreds of patterned yellow cloth lying near by.
someone dragged an old man from amongst the mudbricksshoesclothorangesbloodandbones
a woman searched frantically, holding onto a tiny hat.
   a man stumbled across the street, calling out “RABIAA!! RABIAA!!!WHERE ARE YOUU?”
                                       a boy clutched a girl’s body in his arms, holding onto a red shawl
muddy tears stained the edges of a child’s face
his blue eyes growing darker.

She sits with her legs folded to the right,
head covered in red satin bordered with gold brocade.
Strands of dark brown hair sneak out from under the satin.
Gold earrings dangle from her small honey colored ears.
She has the plainest lips I’ve ever seen.
They’re just a centimeter apart with no hint of a smile.
Her dark brown eyes are laden with thick black mascara.

I keep trying to look away.
I wonder what she’s thinking as she sits there,
clueless like a young bride.
I think about how many have lusted for her scent before me.

The silk curtain in front of her window closes,
solidifying the boundaries of our two worlds.
Her voluptuous shadow visible behind the curtain pulls me away from my world
and ***** me into hers’.

It’s gone now, and I sit back in my chair and look around.
I hear people discussing the stock market plunge but all I can think about is the dark figure behind the silk curtain.
She will never know I had been so close,

and the woman with the plainest lips will forever remain my secret.

They never spoke, but every time she walked into the train
He reflexively slid to the left and made room for her.
And they would travel together sitting one hand width apart.
He drummed his perfectly crooked fingers on his left thigh,
like a horse that galloped towards an unknown destination.
She clasped and unclasped her hands, and
chewed on the dry skin of her bottom lip.

She always switched off her phone before getting on the train.
She assumed he did too because no one ever disturbed their unsaid conversations.
The old man singing I Wanna Hold Your Hand provided the sound track to their journey.
Yet the most endearing sound was that of him sliding his right foot from side to side.
The soft scraping sound soothed her more than any song ever had.

The train ride lasted twenty-five minutes every night,
during which, in her mind they got married,
went to Vienna for their honeymoon,
and had three children: twin boys and a girl,
who grew up to be the perfect balance between the two of them.

His stop came before hers and
She wondered if one day he would miss his stop and
Ride with her to hers.
He knew her beginning and she knew his end.
She may never know any more
But that didn’t matter because for twenty five minutes a day,
all she needed was the soft scraping sound from his right foot sliding from side to side.