❝ CLEANING THE HOUSE IS NOT 'MALEWIFE BEHAVIOUR', IT'S CALLED BEING A RESPONSIBLE ADULT. ❞
━━━ al-haitham's friends scribble his phone number in one of the stalls of the girls' washroom, and he ends up getting a message at 3 am.
[ al-haith...
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SUNFLOWER.docx
Unsent letters.
If I was a poet, I would have been able to find the right words to describe the phenomenon assaulting me. How I went to places, and looked for you in the faces in each of them. How my hands trembled when our gazes met. How every time we touched, a wave of maroon warmth crept its way to my neck, washing over my cheeks and ears only to leave behind the evidence of embarrassment. How you wore your smile like a lake wore its ripples. You were the only body of water that refused to let me drown.
If I was a poet, my feelings would become an exhibit, and I the museum. People would walk through and leave whenever they were ready. They would see portraits of you and whisper among themselves. They would caress the gentle, yellow petals that tilted their glory to look at the sun. I would hang my musings on the wall, and ask patrons not to touch them, but only half of them would respect the signs, so I would bury them within my heart. A secret that I would share with myself alone.
If I was a poet, I would speak. My pen would bleed with your name. My throat would no longer hurt by the cracks in my amour propre. There was nothing more enticing than silence— not until you came along and made me kill my pride. It clawed its way out of my mouth, leaving behind scars that reminded me of the tone of your voice. Your shadow haunted every thought I had. I liked it. I liked the ghost of you trapping me in reveries.
If I was a poet, my first poem would be about you.
—Al-haitham.
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