Saudis under the Mask

I told you once that that life only gives to take, and if it gives you something grand, then that is only because it intends on taking something in equal grandness. I remember you disagreeing, as if I was your case against the world in that belief. I remember the way you used to talk about forever as if it was your own mother; the safety of it that you strongly believe in. How was I to tell you that even with our swords held high, there is no guarantee that we shall win every war? That even if the love is real, we can never control the circumstances? So here comes today, the distance you swore you'd never keep between us. The swords are still high, but this time we stand on opposite ends. God knows I'd drop my sword and cross the distance if only I knew you wanted me to win this war. So as I stand alone, terrified of what tomorrow might bring, I walk the streets we used to take. Under that streetlight where we said our goodbyes, I stand. I look up and see that flickering stre...

Breathless as in the way I first felt when our eyes met for the first time you walked in the room. Breathless as in the way I felt when you first told me you loved me and I stayed up that night counting what I can remember from the stars in your eyes. Breathless as in the way I felt when you hurt me for the first time and it felt like everything I've ever loved has walked out on me. Breathless as in the way I felt when you made the galaxies collide just to see me smile after a stupid little fight.

I try to relive what it was like when you were here, but I can only see fragments of that. I see glimpses of you, but you never fully appear. I fight the sleep in my eyes just so that maybe one night I'd finally hear your soft whispers. I turn in my bed 26 times before the tears come running down my face, and right there and then, I can almost feel your fingers wiping away my tears. But then again, you're hardly ever here, you never fully appear.

ما يحول بيني وبينك الآن. أكثر الأماكن وحدة وأقلهم سوداوية في هذه الحياة، كونه أول علامات التخلي في رواياتنا. هذا الحيز الصغير الذي نتخذه حال ما زادت مشاعرنا وحال ما غُلِبت مفرداتنا لقوة وضجيج ذلك الشعور الداخلي. عندما يبدو الكلام بلا جدوى، وكل عتاب يُصبح كأنه قصة طال تكرارها لأجيال لا تكترث لأساطير الأولين. هذا الهدوء المزعج الذي لا تُحل عقدته، إن طال فلا مخرج من صخبه، وإن قصر فليس الكلام أكثر رحمة منه