The night didn’t cascade
like a curtain of tresses on your face,
the window watched the moon pecking
at its humility, the air a whirl of aphrodisiac
penetrations, if only you’d remember my name
on your lips like a prayer, count me on beads
but of your skin that breaks under the light
left on so you can watch me break
in my eyes, we both know which is more
beautiful, more durable, of better arts
practised, you flinch at the sight of me –
my ghosts – the same alluring ink,
a different page, different moon
and breaking glass.
Sheikha A. is from Pakistan and U.A.E. and often finds herself in a world of oscillation that most of the times motivates her writing too. She maintains a (or tries to) blog on sheikha82.wordpress.com.