Pull me down.
Hold me c l o s e.
You're the one,
I want the m o s t.

Breathe in deep.
Pull your h a i r.
You wanna be here,
I wanna be t h e r e.

What's old is dust.
And today is n e w.
You remake me.
I'll remake y o u.

**** and kiss,
and tongue and *******.
This is fate,
with a little l u c k.

Take me to the river,
wash me clean,
wash me clean.
I want the stain of her removed,
from every scrap of everything.
Take me to the river,
wash me clean,
wash me clean.
Singe her stench from my soul,  
burn every fiber of my being.

Take me to the river,
wash me clean,
wash me clean.
I want to be free of her memory,
and the song that we'd sing.
Singing, Oh, Lord,
Grant me renewal,
give me grace.
I can still taste your love,
though now it’s a bitter taste.

The sound of silence is a penetrating thing.
It rings in my ears; it hurts, and it stings.
The sound of silence is a terrible thing.
The notes of death a swan song sings.
The sound of silence is a telling thing.
It whispers, "it's over, it was only a fling."
Perhaps there's something else it means?
Can silence actually be a gift of sorts?
Her way of saying, "I care, of course."
"I care enough not to call,
not to text,"
no sounds at all.
If you love something, let it go.
It's a catchphrase proverb we all know.
We've heard it before,
and we know it makes sense.
Letting go has a sound,
the sound of silence.

My mind was yours
but now it's locked.
I used to care
but now I've stopped.
My heart was full
but now it's popped.
The picture was us
but now it's cropped.

This is a thoroughly post-modern phenomenon.

[Breathe, don't be nervous. It's fine. Wallah, you're not doing anything wrong.]

Digitally arranged meetings with ostensible strangers yet with more familiarity than our ancestors could imagine.
An arranged meeting,
a warm greeting,
a sensing,
a feeling.

“Are you Sami?”
“I am,” as I posture for a hug.

[She’s actually more beautiful than I expected. Her ample curls smell like conditioner and sunshine.]

“So you’re Kuwaiti?"
"Yea, I moved here when I was 18, to Kansas of all places."
"To be honest, I had to look up the emoji flag from your profile. My Muslim WhatsApp group helped me out.”
“Oh, okay. So you’re Muslim?”
“Yea, I was raised Muslim; my mom married a Kuwaiti in the 80s, blah blah blah.”
“What? Your mom lived in Kuwait?”
“Yea, kinda crazy, I know, but it’s a small world.”

[Small worlds make the gaps between souls smaller.
Who knew such a small place could leave such a big impact on so many lives?
Certainly neither of us.
Serendipity?
Allah y3alam.]  

“Why do lesbians discriminate against bisexuals? You’d think of all people, they wouldn’t be so judgmental.”
“You’d think, but you’d be wrong. It’s like we have a plague.” Her voice goes on, but my mind drifts off.

[Tortoise-shell glasses, beautiful lashes, manicured eyebrows that frame flickering dark eyes, encased in a forest of curls, legging laced thighs, oh my. ::Deepsigh. Pay attention to what she’s saying! Oh my, she’s my type. This is bad. No, no, hamdilah, this is good.]

“Do you want another round?” the bar keep’s inquiry snaps me back to reality. I interrupt to suggest a change of location. [Perhaps something less commercial, less public, less straight, more private, and more intimate.]
“It’s only a short walk.”
“Yea, let’s do it.”

[By short walk, I mean three doors down from the bar. The perks of suggesting the venue.]

“Shoes off?”
“Yea, it’s habit, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.”

She sits, crosses her long legs, and gives me this look. My heart flutters; I remember my manners:
“Can I make you a drink? What’s your poison? Gin or *****?”
I mix our drinks and think:
[She must like me.
This is good.
I’m glad we did this digital dance to find romance.
What a treasure, finding this post-modern habibi.
Alhamdulilah,
Lucky me.]