I.
I'm writing to tell you that I've spoken with your sister.

She tells me everything these days, though recently I've marked the way her voice conceals a quiet shame; rage in casual tones, and fear in quiet whispers.

I haven't kissed her in quite some time.
She's thinking of you.

II.
I'm sorry that I haven't written sooner. This fasting saps volition from my fingers, and the hot smell of ozone still lingers in the air.

But everywhere I see you on the news.

Has Ramadan been hard for you this year? I'm looking forward to hearing from you. I want to know that you are near once more. Please write.

III.
I saw an action flick today, and something of you in the way the heroine roared and flipped her hair just before letting a rocket fly.

I thought that I would die of suspense until the moment when the hero rose from the rubble to stand above his foes.

Crows circled. Credits rolled.

IV.
Thunder tolls. The atmosphere crackles and bursts. It's early yet, and not even my worst. My warring hands will never give you peace. An endless war-song issues from my lips.

You are not brave enough, dear girl, to resist destruction by my hand. The bomb blessed by my lips is indifferent, darling boy.

I will consume the gardens planted with your seeds.

V.
Bismillah, arrahman, arraheem.

VI.
Blessed is he who cries out for peace.
The Lord sees him and sees that he is good.

Blessed is she who dines before the sunrise and loses her life at noon, still clad in vestments of her childhood.

VII.
Eid Mubarak, and peace be with you every year. I've yet to hear from you.

I saw your sister again today. Whatever tinged her voice still holds her.

She said she hasn't written.

It matters who writes, so write a love-letter, I told her.

She's thinking of you.