I am a dandelion in the hand of a child.
I haven’t the heart to tell her
that I’m a **** and not a wildflower.
So I don’t.

The stars are always aligned but I can’t always see
them properly. When the light is low and the moon is new
I can show you what Orion’s arm is pointing to,
a little cluster like us that hardly exists.

My mother used to tell me that my hands would be
too clammy to be held by anyone else
but she wasn’t counting on you.

Our fingers are woven tight enough that I feel safe
looking up-
we can take the constellations in turns, you first,
so that if the toe of your boot catches
a crack in the asphalt where moss is growing through
I can steady you.

And you would do the same for me.

The earth is so young. There will be
time enough for me to take you to the observatory,
to see properly how Orion stands ready
to catch the Pleiades.
We can watch it till sunrise, fingers intertwined,
blinking sleep from our eyes as the sun blinks the stars
from its skies, thinking:
that is you and I

In the moments of your first breath your name is burned into the skin
It's up to you to live that life and make it fit
I have grown out of my name, out of my home
A giant trying to room with the little old lady that lived in a shoe
Sometimes I'm held hostage by my roots that reach up and fasten their tendrils around my oaf limbs
Tugging too hard makes the earth turn into scarves that wrap around my colored hair
A queer islamic girl is weird and rare.
I don't believe that a god would condemn us to be such a walking oxymoron
But sometimes when I read the Koran and agree
Trace a few familiar names with my finger
What used to be me can't truly be

when was the time it started rocking
was it the second of lost memory
wait a minute i'm thinking something
if that thinking has anything to do with me

with the hour getting late
i try and explain away the day
with a week making me in the knees
a month of this will put me in the grave

i feel it's been a life long journey
surviving all the way till now
as i wonder what's the hurry
a year lost could be twelve months found

I am no more than an Courier
A wanderer through life
Words are what I choose to cling to
Purveyor of the times

Spending forbidding moments in the desert
Just to watch it bloom at night
The chilling winds that blow the stinging sands
Help create that which I write

I look for answers in the greyest of skies
Where there's no limit to the powers that be
The howling wind changes the shape I'm in
That only the darkness it can see

The river that flows freely from my soul
Starts out where this life fails to end
And when it reaches its destination
The tide will rise again...

~~
You are always beneath the sky
though you can think above all the heights
even behind the origin
and following just after

A bit ahead
just before the end of the evening
a distinct dark and a shadow
caught between two stools

I'm moving between the line,
blessing in disguise
stepping forward,
taking the best of both worlds

Shadows have a sound of mist
within the shadows
and the dark has a light
at the bottom on the line of dark

but I caught between two stools
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen