I want her whole
not a piece,
not the polished shards she hands to the world,
not the velvet masks she sleeps in just to survive the light.
I want her raw.
A full moon stripped of her costume,
naked in the dark hallway of herself,
no disguise,
no trembling apology.
Laughing with her **** face uncovered,
every crack in her skin a doorway,
her soul leaking out like honey
down the thighs of the night.
Playing the Kanun
as if her fingers weren't playing strings
but opening her lover's hips
drawing from the gut of wood and wire
a longing so wet
that music and desire moan the same tongue.
Each note trembles like a first touch.
Each melody wanders like a hand
forgetting to ask permission,
searching the blind curves of the beloved.
And somewhere between moonlight and sweat,
between her laugh and the low animal hunger in her throat
they dissolve into each other
not gently, not kind,
but like two waves breaking into one mouth.
Two hearts drinking from the same split cup.
Two spines arching around a single flame.
Her breath. His breath. No. Whose breath?
While the Kanun weeps, opens, and remembers:
love was always a body
before it became a word.