ms.anonymous

The way you write about the moon is so soft and intimate I almost feel like as if you see the moon differently. 🌖

Do you really need a reason for that? I mean it's the Moon we're talking about! But to be honest I really don't know actually. The Moon was always there for me in someway or other. And as I grew up the Moon just became the part of some of the best chapters of my life. But if I really think about it...

One of my earliest memories about the Moon is when I was admitted in a hospital for xyz reasons and 5 year old me was scared (obviously). And from my room's window the Crescent Moon was clearly visible. And just watching it put my heart at ease & somehow made me feel a little less alone.

...

Then when the procedures were finally done and when I was finally discharged. We were on our way home, and once again the Moon was visible from our car's window, the Full Moon this time (5 year old me didn't knew any astronomy then, so she was confused 🫠) so I asked my Mother "Why doesn't the Moon ever leaves? Why does it keep following us?" And then she & smiled said "The Moon... Is like our companion for the dark and lonely nights. It'll always stay with you. Wherever you go, it'll come find you. The Moon may change its shape and sizes but it'll never ever abandon you like others. So whenever you feel a little troubled at night, look up at the sky, the Moon will always be there... waiting for you."

And from that day I was in love, because the Moon never ever left...

the rooftop wind tugs at the azure ends of my hijab,

unraveling them into the vast blue

until they are no longer mine—

but the sky.

and suddenly, everything else ceases to hold meaning anymore

because there you are...

your hands deft, slicing at the strings of your kite,

euphorically pulling it higher, higher,

like you could rip a vein straight out of the clouds.

your laughter, head tilted back at something your friend says...

ricochets through the hollowed out marrow of evening

your eyes crinkling as your kite makes the others fall down to the ground,

while light collects, in the folds of your brown shirt sleeve, mid motion

i feel it strike me in the ribs

everywhere

it's just you

you

you

you

my lips, traitors,

automatically help my cheeks

curve into the soft whisker-dimples

surfacing like

forgotten fossils

that only rise when i truly, truly smile

at your end, the sky

which is housing your kite is already

hemorrhaging in orange,

as if the sun itself cannot not

want the nearness of you

i clutch my right hand with my left, behind my back

hiding the tremor of my fingers,

a shiver born of jealousy—

jealousy for that damned solar flame,

that stupid air, that mere light,

for everything that can touch you,

and walk away unblistered.

and for one suspended, feathered moment—

i almost reach out...

after all,

you're here, right in front of me...

just a rooftop away

and you're you...

perhaps if i could just—

but...

no!

no!

no—

the spell festeres faster than it spread.

as if the red string of fate,

got tangled with the string in your hands

and carried my scent to you

you're turning your head this way and

and i...

i rupture

bolting for the stairs that can drive me away

from the spiders, bursting in my chest,

crawling upward, at the thought of you seeing me bare faced

after you and i...

have already lost

our childlike features

fleeing from the unbearable truth

that you are the living echo of my father,

while i

have inherited nothing of my mother's,

save her grief.

the past swells in my esophagus like spoiled fruit,

too rancid to swallow,

too stubborn to spit.

i choke on the stairwell air,

gagging on the stale aftertaste of memories,

its rot slick against my tongue.

ghosts crowd my mouth.

what was.

what might have been.

what never will be.

only if...

only if...

my mother said, “there’ll be plenty of space here, that'll all be yours,” before driving away from my hostel gate, her voice bright and cheery, but i could see right through her cracked façade of the foolish hope she was trying to bequeath me. as if space were a blessing and not the hungry, ribbed seething creature I know it to be.

but mama—

that night, when I begged the moon to follow you for my sake,

it abandoned me.

slipped out of the sky like a coward,

lost somewhere between your warm home and my cold cot.

and yes, there is space here,

too much of it mama

in the dips of my clavicles

but there's no love destined to be filled there, it's all so cold and lonely here

you were just nineteen when you had me in your arms

a weak, unwanted youngling

that you oh so desperately tried to claw the hand grip away,

but i had nowhere to go

i'm sorry...

and nineteen years later i just palm grief in mine, as if it were the only thing that ever wanted to stay

i try to push it away the same way

but she has nowhere to go

and she isn't even sorry!

the girls are giggling with their favourite professor, their laughter clicking like loose marbles on tile.

i'm waiting for them to walk back together. i hover outside like a child put in timeout for misbehaviour (my assigned job in every relationship i own) im waiting.

the time right after maghrib when i flick the golden fairy lights on, a cheap imitation of salvation.

they tremble against the walls like frightened fireflies

and i pretend they can hold the dusk back,

that they can silence the old terror which climbs my spine after the sun flees,

after someone who was once the light behind my smile leaves,

but no shine is enough to forbid my melancholy from coming a serpent tightening,

looping itself around my throat with practiced ease,

making me a hostage of my panic in the corner of my bed,

where no footsteps ever approach,

no voice bends its syllables toward me.

my reflection stares back:

flat and accusatory,

and beneath it— my forearms,

a geography i carved myself,

little red doorways i opened with knives

these quiet, eager knives

that sit in my heart

and wait for instruction.

i would haunt every room looking for you,

followed by that was a pause. long and unhurried. he didn’t rush her. didn't stiffen or press. his patience wrapped around her fear like steady hands around trembling snowflakes, soothing her with slow, mindless circles drawn on her back.

“you went away...” the words slipped out, barely more than a breath, spoken by a girl carved from the quiet part of his rib, curled now against the thundering cage of his heartbeat.

that with the passing days

the remnants of his warmth will someday evaporate and dissolve like mist kissed by the morning sun.

leave no trace,

no echo.

maybe one day, she'd wake,

sweep open the drapes,

and not ache at the blue

that isn't his eyes staring back from the sky.

when there's a reflection of the moon in eyes

i wonder

if poets are the people who love

a poem lives in me. no

it rots

somewhere inside my chest,

has been there for days

an organ gone bad

blue-soft

maggoted with time.

it lodges behind the sternum

presses its clenched teeth to my lips

and refuses to be born

i reach inward and find nothing in my soul to resurrect it.

only haze.

only pulp.

it floats light-years away from me

the same way you do now,

the same way something unnamed

has always lived in my heart

unclaimed,

untranslated,

never brave enough to become blood.

life lifted me

six hundred and twenty miles

and hurled me outward.

as if six houses were already a crime

as if the universe panicked

at the thought of us breathing

the same weather.

distance was mercy and the blade

that made sure destiny

could not finish its sentence.

some nights

i give my foolish heart temporary clearance—

a permit to miss

what was never mine to touch

it lunges anyway

bone against bone

and comes back bruised,

howling for a home it remembers

those nights i cry for a cage meant to cradle breath,

to keep a heart from falling out.

because home is the curve of your rib...

that i was not carved from

the train howls, a metallic wail slicing through the hush of twilight,

its wheels inching forward, dragging time along with it.

i need to hold you a little longer—

breathe in the scent of home clinging to your

sky-blue shirt,

twist my fingers into its fabric, tear it if i must,

but never let go.

even if the station fractures into a stampede,

the tide of bodies forcing us apart.

the world’s already in an apocalypse—

you can see it from my eyes if you don’t believe me,

the wreckage smoldering beneath rust-tinted glass,

a quiet ruin reflected in every blink.

and maybe that’s why they say i have yours—

the same swirls of caramel with flecks of rust,

like embers dying in a sea of honey.

but i always needed a mirror to see tears in them,

as if sorrow only made sense when it was mine alone.

i never thought a day would come when i wouldn’t—

when the glass would shatter,

and the gold would seep into sadness.

i'd get on a plane and fly to you in an hour if you ever called.

but will you?

when the world collapses around you,

when the walls close in,

when the sky forgets to hold the sun—

will you remember to call when you're supposed to run to save your loved ones from falling debris?

will you remember the one 622 miles away?

didn't i leave your world when i first decided to leave this word called ‘town’ we add ‘home’ before?

will you forget to remember?

or remember to forget?

the bus is leaving,

my vision getting blurrier with each passing moment,

like rain sliding down window panes, distorting the world between us.

it's harder now—to count the freckles on your porcelain skin.

will i ever feel them again beneath the pores of my fingertips?

or will the next time they come under my touch,

my fingers will be cold, cyan, and limp?

tell me they won’t.

i can't leave if you don't promise me they won't.

but i have to.

i can't, though.

can you do something about it—

the spiders that've made a home in my ribs,

spinning webs of quiet dread, tightening around my lungs with each breath?

do promises even matter?

when fate's already etched seven skies above, immutable and absolute?

should i pray?

or should i not?

in case the weight of my existence cracks the fragile thread of hope?

i need to spit it out of me—

the first and might-be-the-last "i love you."

but my tongue folds around it,

the words curling inward like a dove trapped in a cage.

i've always had the habit of swallowing them down.

who’d know better than you?

you, who would rub my back,

soft circles at the dastarkhan, encouraging me to let it all out.

but i couldn't.

a mess can't afford to create another mess.

& i—i’ve always been a splintered thing,

afraid to bleed where you might touch me.

you hold up your tiny toy car in the air, eyes bright with certainty, and say,

"i'll come pick you up and bring you back if you miss me too much!"

i smile, nod, and roll up my seat's window

so you won't see me swallow the lump of grief clogging my throat,

choking down the taste of a goodbye i never agreed to say.

grief

it sits heavy in my stomach, a quiet passenger on this journey.

i'm mourning the days slipping through my fingers like sand—

the day i won’t be there when you outgrow your favorite shoes (to buy you new ones),

when you scrape your knee learning to ride a bicycle (to band-aid the wound and blow the pain away),

when you first understand what it means to miss someone (to crouch down and open my arms to engulf your running form in them).

sure, i’ll come visit—

but you won’t ever be four years and two days old again.

that grief clings to my ankle like a toddler left hungry,

pulling, tugging, begging me to look his way,

even as the wheels of the car stir me away from you.

do i really have to trade your present for a future

that i’m not even sure exists?

is the road ahead worth the pieces of you i’ll lose along the way?

or am i just driving toward the echo of a childhood

i’ll only know through phone calls and whatsapp images?

the whites of our mosque gleam under the golden sunlight,

the intricate patterned mats and the cool feeling of the ivory marble

that once soothed the burn of my aching soles.

there's a faded, tiny you and a tiny me sitting on the inside,

relics curled into the corners of my chest.

my right eye aches as the wound from years ago strikes,

melting with the new one,

threatening to spill out as it gets too flooded for my fragile banks to hold back.

i foolishly search for you...

in the meaningless crowd of passerby faces,

hoping—stupidly, achingly... that maybe you'd be one of them.

a fleeting glimpse of you for me, caught in passing,

a wistful glance of me for you, left unnoticed.

if by some mercy it happens...

i'll turn and step onto the ivory floor,

pray a quiet shukrana on the intricate patterns beneath my feet.

but it's foolish, of course.

i realise as i see hope smiling wickedly,

clicking her tongue in mockery.

i stare down at my feet,

my toes crisscrossed against index ones—

an anxious habit you always made fun of.

hope stands above me, at the tallest minaret high in the sky,

holding my wretched heart in her pale hands,

fingers delicately uncurling around the grasp.

i close my eyes as i brace for the impact.

will the fallen shards of it on the road ever sting someone?

my worry flutters weakly through the air

as hope ramp-walks all over it with her pencil heels,

crushing it without even looking down.

why would you come?

when you don't even know of my departure?

so i force my feet to move.

walk past the minaret, past the phantoms, past the cemetery...

where i took a hold of my hope by the neck,

rubbed that cruel smile off her face,

and buried her alive—

without a prayer, without a stone, without a goodbye.

It's Saturady and the world hums with restless energy: neon lights flickering, air heavy with static, laughter spilling onto sidewalks, car horns and conversations blending into the night. But we are here, together. Home. I step into the lounge and find you crouched beside the CD box, brows furrowed in concentration as you search for something. Then, triumph—your fingers close around a familiar case, and you hold it up like a victory— my favourite movie. You remembered. Last week, we watched yours. Just like that, a smile tugs at my lips, warmth blooming in my chest. And before my heart can soar any further, the doorbell rings—our takeout, right on cue!

By the fireplace, we sit, different books in hand, the only sounds between us the gentle crackle of burning wood and the soft rustle of turning pages. Peace and quiet. From time to time, I steal a glance at you— only to look away quickly, afraid of being caught. Unaware of the fact that you are doing the same thing.

When you know they're home, by the familiar click of the lock, by the quiet rhythm of their footsteps. So you go to check, and get greeted by their smiling figure— a real, warm, eyes-lit-up kind of smile. So you smile too.

And on the nights when they don't find you waiting, they look for you. From room to room, until they find you crumpled up inside one's floor, “There you are,” they think instead of recoiling from the sight. They don’t rush you, don’t demand explanations. They just come close, wrap you in their warmth, and you ease. No words, just presence. Just little particles of love floating in the air.

I just want a quiet love, with no grand gestures or elaborate promises. People will do the talking no matter what, so why can't we just be? Be in love. 

So that when the time comes for one of you to leave this world, you do it just as softly, just a click of the lock, the familiar absence of footsteps and you'll know. And after that, the moments of silence that follow they bring along their presence like a warm breeze. You don’t even realize they’re gone until you look up from your book and see the empty space where they once sat.

I just want a love that does not wound in silence. A love that does not haunt me with the absence of words.

A love like— we once had something beautiful and now that one of us is gone, I still find you in the moments of silence. Once alive, now an unburied memory.

Because words never die, but they make you do.

They're spoken once, but can be heard forever.

But you're too busy doing something else to look at me.

Like how it's been my whole life. I don't want to go there. They'll kill me.

Or worse, they'll find a cure to undo the effects of my attempts at it.

“Are you dying?” a kid sitting across from me in a hospital lobby questions innocently.

I smile at him in the niqab and wonder,

If he's old enough to tell it from eyes. “I don't know it yet.” I answer.

“Then are you here to get a new hand like me?"

I avoid looking at his sling to save my heart from breaking,

as I say “No I'm here to get new blood.” He tilts his head like he doesn't get it.

But then starts telling me about the time he got scared while getting an iv,

I listen to him like there's nothing in this world more interesting than it. There isn't anything really.

He has so much sparkle in his eyes,

that I want to pick him up and run away.

So that I can save him from this cruel world.

Protect his toothy smile from these people to snatch away.

But then I remember what I did to the child in the mirror.

I was supposed to love her.

I couldn't, it's not my fault though.

She didn't have anything worthy in her.

There's a pigeon with an injured wing living on the tree in front of my window.

Everyday the sun rises in the sky and so does it,

or tries to, only to fall below,

hard on the ground, I flinch when it happens, but then at least it's better at this thing than me.

I wonder if I'd also be trying everyday if I just had an injured wing?

Living, not surviving?

I wonder if I had wings in the past and they took them away?

Is that what the scars on my back are trying to say?

If yes, than what about the scars on my heart. Is there a way to fix it?

Fix it? Fix it? Fix... Me?

That's what my sister says to me while,

We walk back home when the moon's high in the sky.

“I wish you could fix yourself, so we could go back to how it was before.”

How was it before? I try to remember.

I can't. There was no before.

Just pain and some more.

“What in me needs to be fixed?”

I hesitate so much before asking the question

that my voice betrays me and dies in my throat.

She speeds up her pace and reaches home.

Leaving my bones behind to shiver in the wind,

I look up at the sky and ask

“What in me needs to be…

My voice dies from humiliation before reaching above

A new dawn comes, outside my window, but it stays night inside,

I prostrate before my lord and ask him for relief, despite being unsure if I deserve it,

I walk to the park, under the sky of birds leaving their homes behind.

I didn't. I don't even know where it is or if there's one mine.

There's an old lady smiling at the sight of kids playing.

I can't help but notice the way her eyes crinkle behind her glasses as she does so.

Maybe I stared too long, because she's turning her head towards me, I turn away quickly because it's mortifying,

To be seen, to exist, to breathe in public.

“I always loved kids,” she begins, her voice having a motherly affection.

Please don't say you couldn't become a mother, please, please.

She does.

I close my eyes with pain. “I'm sorry,” I try to say but it feels too useless, too small, too petty, too... me.

Sorry. It's the word just like my whole existence.

“I can't either,” I say looking ahead at the children.

“Oh I'm sorry!” she says. And it starts to bleed as the glass coated sorry of mine that was stuck in my throat slides its way to my stomach.

So I muster a nod and whisper what I should've said instead of sorry in the first place, “Fiha khair!”

I whisper the words to myself the entire walk back to my house.

Whisper them as my head hits the pillow and sleep seems too faraway.

Whisper them as relief feels too distant

Whisper them as relief comes to me and says I'm not coming, so I just shake my head and

Beg my lord as my head lulls to sleep:

‘To take me when he's pleased with me’

I open my eyes at the sound of beep