Every time I want to write something, I end up writing about you.
So,
I don’t.
I play some music and I take a nap. I wake up in the evening, around sunset, when the sky looks like a drawing palette. In autumn, you can still see some clouds before it all starts to look gray again. I wash my face and try not to avoid looking at myself in the mirror. I roll myself a cigarette and smoke it. I take a few puffs, and then I watch it keep burning on the ashtray. My flat mate complains that I smoke in the room and I promise him it is the last time. I still want to write. Therefore, I try to write about anything else but you. I promised myself not to write about you, because if I did, then I would bring you back to life, and to be honest, I love you more now that you are a ghost. The ghost of you is kinder to me. I call her a name that sounds like yours. She knows that I don’t need her, but my jokes are much funnier when she is around. I still want to write. The reason I don’t want to write about you is that I never wanted you to be just a few pages in my book. I wanted you to be the whole book. So why would I write a poem or two about you? As if you need some words to tell you how you own my heart with your warm smile. I wish I were the greatest poet. I would write you love poems that would rhyme with your name. Love poems that could offer some kind of love that you are willing to accept. It is almost midnight now and I have not written anything yet. I close my laptop and tell myself that tomorrow I am going to write about you.
© Kamal Alhomsi 2022-12-01