They say
slow burns
are the worst
—yet the best
kind of feelings;
anti-climactic,
yet sporadic.

Blue tick.
Never here,
never there.

Just a cliffhanger,
dangling in hot
luncheon air.

Maybe those
are the best
kind of feelings?

- Ring ring -

Brown picket fence,
crossing borders—barter,
of custom(ary) dowry,
and nikah beyond wali.

Foreign weather,
foreign tongues,
foreign sparks.

Permit—ssable
by nature,
but not
legislature.

Pretty passport, privilege.
Permanent identity—
self-interest,
lineage.

🪪

There’s a fine line
between wants
and needs.

I don’t need you.

I just want you.

Could that be even worse?

✖️

When you‘re about to float
like a lost balloon—don’t!

You stay anchored,
grounded,
despite
being
wounded.

On land,
or in water,
so other’s
don’t drift—
even drowned,
even blood
dilutes.

🌊

You had no idea,
all the things I told my ChatGPT.

A silent voice with no belittle,
felt more human when they just listened.

🤖

Dripping nectar
from forbidden fruit
tasted far sweeter,
ripened quicker,
premature,
yet stronger.

Like Adam and Eve,
you’ve been teased—
and oh Lord,
divinely
deceived.

🍇

Each sip burns my tongue,
yet the more I taste,
the deeper I’m hooked.

You’re bitter-hot,
bold and addictive,
in every drop.

No-calorie sweetness—
no weight,
just ache.

☕️