Bare waists and midriffs.

I don’t know why every time his fingers trail my bare waist, I feel much more than just the shiver of intimacy run up my spine.

I try to wander the corridors of my mind to find out why he feels much more than just someone I make out with.

I cannot help but notice that it’s much more than just his hair that I grab onto now. I often envelop his hands so tightly with mine.

I wake up late into the nights and crave for his lips to be pressed against my neck, and I fall asleep with my hands wrapped around the pillow as if it were him.

I repeatedly catch myself thinking about him as I tie my hair back into the ponytail that he obsesses over.

Whenever he picks me up, and looks me in the eye, I don’t look at his lips while biting mine anymore. Instead, I kiss his nose and his chest, and feel his heart beating against my lips. I think of his smile as his kisses just grazes my midriff.

Why do I get all excited and tensed as he softly tucks my hair behind my ear?

I don’t know.


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Mirages and ink bottles.

I am a pen. This might sound like a metaphorical exaggeration, or an ornamented fact, but it is what I am. Every time I hear the same song that you loved on the radio, it’s like a cut on the side of my arm, and the ink just flows out. Every nick and cut that I get onto my calloused skin, just turns into a bruise that I wear as battle scars and gripping stories. Every time I look at the sunlight through the tinted windows of my car, I cannot help but associate the golden hue to the hazel of your eyes. Every time I look at the vast emptiness that expands beyond the final steps of a cliff, I cannot help but imagine the jagged rocks hidden in snow to be my best friends crooked front teeth, or the jump to the bottom to hide stories of wonderland. You never know what’s hiding just beyond the point your eyes cannot see.

I don’t consider myself a writer, or the pen as a fancy extension of my arm. I don’t believe in using words to heal my pain, or writing as an escape from this cruel world. I don’t make routines and set time periods for the words to find a way out, and I don’t plan on keeping them inside of me where the dark waves can hit the sun drenched sand and wipe them away. I am not a lonely or broken man wandering on hot sidewalks among a cluster of thoughts and people, wondering why you left me, or why no one talks to me the way you did.

When I see the wailing child staring at the ice cream vendor as if that’s all he ever wanted, I cannot help but smile and think about the wishes I’ve had as a child and even as an adult. And when all of this stays in my mind, my brain becomes a volcanic land with words as molten ink, erupting onto snow sheets, paper lines, and electric screens. I don’t wait for the right moment or for the memorable one. I just find things beautiful, and I let you know. When an injured boy cries on the television and countries blow up, or a young girl is found dead on the streets, or you’re just the happiest you could ever be, you’ll bleed blue too. We all will. There’s nothing hiding beyond the point your eyes cannot see, except mirages and an ink bottle.


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This damn world.

This world,
It is filled with
Desperate tongues and restless emotions,
Pretty dandelions and harsh sunlight.
It is made of
Prying eyes and numbing sentiments,
Love roses and dirty soil.
It dances to the beats of
Missiles and declarations of war,
Screams of innocents and catchy tunes.
It gets excited when
A trend takes over,
A new joke is made,
They read deep quotes they don’t understand,
Or just listen to what Trump said.
In this world, where will the humans live?

This world,
It is filled with
Praising mouths and soft hearts,
Different languages yet a steady connection.
It is made of
Heart beats and homes,
Beautiful mountains and enormous waves.
It dances to the beats of
Cheerful giggles and loud exclamations,
Sweet voices and melodious music.
It gets excited when
Passports are painted,
Tickets are bought,
They try new food,
Or over five tequila shots.
In this world, where will the demons hide?


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Hearts

“O heart, be patient” – Qur’an

My heart has been jumping around,
Quite a lot since,
I became old enough to feel it.
It beats faster,
with every sheep that I count,
one sheep,
two sheep,
and three.
Maybe it just loves to dream,
And since I’ve grown old enough,
And since the things I’ve seen,
It has become restless,
For it wants butterflies,
and flowers,
fire and gushing winds,
Empty cliffs and ferocious waves.
It wants roses,
and tequila shots,
and that one girl I just can’t walk up to.
It wants to travel to places,
that even cameras haven’t seen
places where there’s no chaos,
And everything is at peace.
It doesn’t know what’s enough,
for it still isn’t old enough,
but it’s old enough to want everything anyway.
It wants giggles,
and tears that don’t sting,
and lies for surprise parties,
instead of a casual fling.
It wants unrequited love,
adventures and crazy shit.
It wants to eat french,
and kiss Italian,
Hold tiny paws of dogs,
and look into the small eyes of cats.
It wants to live,
and not just exist.
What it does not want is to be
Naive in this world.
It wants everything good,
and everything bad.
But most of all,
it wants to be able to smile,
and let it reach the eyes.
That is all.


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A new shade.

Is it just me who’s blind,
Or did the world go blind too?
I don’t know where,
or how to look for the answer,
without my eyes.

The wind can speak,
And the leaves can gossip.
The sun can giggle,
And the clouds can cry.
How has this remained
a secret for so long?
Every breath I take
Now has a papery taste,
Dry and evident.
Every word I speak,
Now sounds like an echo,
That fills the room
With its existence.
Every giggle that I hear,
Tickles my ear,
And makes me feel the joy
That it is made of.
How have I never been
So alive before?
I’ve tripped on the stairs,
That I had jumped over
A thousand times before,
Did it move?
The walls feel a bit too close,
And colors a bit too far.
Darkness has a strange color.
It reminds me of the night,
But also the day.
But mostly, it reminds me of the sky
Infinite.
Darkness is a void,
The other senses can only try to fill.
How is it that we’ve never
seen this shade before?

Is it just me who’s blind,
Or did the world go blind too?
I don’t know where,
or how to look for the answer,
without my eyes.


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