This is the fall.

Inspired by Sarah Reaburn, written to the sounds of Jadal, and dedicated to the season I love the most.

"How sweet, golden emboldened love letters crunching under her feet, nature in repeat, ushering away the heat, and living off heart beats,

this is the fall, when love meets winter in an empty hall, and dances to the sounds of hands clinging on to each other to break down walls, stars decorate the skies like disco balls, and the only thing we hear are stories of a summer-gone-by on endless broken phone calls,

this the fall, when strength comes together like kids burning down the mall, when magic forgets money because now they're selling nothing at your nearest stall, people feeling dignified like those shedding trees that stand so tall

this is the fall, where all knows all, like Maoist rebels and lonely mothers in Nepal, or lovers making thread out of trust to sew each other colorful shawls, the way the sun crawls over grassy parks and chocolate waterfalls is all-in-all just something to die for after all,

How sweet, when will they meet, like revolutionary thoughts taking all the talk to the streets, nature in repeat, when cold decorates the world with colors living and dying under her feet."

Damaged.

On the train, our words held on to each other, refusing to let go. They lost themselves to the meaningless movements of other people's mechanical mouths. Letters sat in other letters' laps, small sentences got together with bigger sentences for warmth, and unspoken words took comfort in the presence of dancing eyes.

Paper reaches out to kiss the touch of my pen when I write about her. Saron. Lovers no more. Love beaten to death by exile, mutilated by denial, buried beneath a pile of broken promises. I knock on the windows of offices, and look for life in a paycheck. Broken necks and tasteless smiles come together like thieves and missing files. Lovers no more. I stand at my door, praying for rain to wash away the shame, but all remains the same, like the day Baghdad fell to her knees, but nobody came. Lovers no more. Standing on the shores of complacency, I beg the sea to take me to where I can beg and plea for forgiveness, but not for return. Once a poem is burned, all we can hope for are golden ashes to take turns in kissing the sky, and waiting for a moment to sit under our bleeding eyes.

I can never articulate the extent to which Saron made me a better person. Her version of the truth, long nights of kissing and loving through and through, brought the revolution closer to me and you. She stood on top of benches, and taught the wind how to move. She exposed the beauty of fighting diaspora through every curve and every groove. In every field of life, even those where the grass was replaced by an abundance of strife, her mind and its prowess cut through obstacles like a fearless knife. She showed me life in a light that I will never see again. I can't pretend that there are beginnings after every end. We can't even be friends, and now I spend moments like palm trees refusing to bend under the fire of Americans.

Saron, if these words are graced by the magic of your eyes, their size is no reflection of the state in which my heart lies. When love dies, the sea itself will capsize. So with no surprise, I take that which you gave me and color the skies, drawing circles and stars and planets with thick lines.

Moving Forward

The heart will never forget, even if the mind goes on its knees and begs. But like days decorating the dignity of Iraq, I won't stop. Love is there sitting on rooftops waiting for candy coated raindrops to pop.

In Doha, my world slowly unravels itself to the sounds of stubborn doors. I am thankful for the presence of love in my life. I have met the most beautiful souls, radically juxtaposing themselves against the cruelty of the falsely assembled cold. I dream of Toronto, and the songs written on the faces of my friends. But being within the reach of Bethlehem, Beirut, Cairo, Damascus, and Baghdad heals my worldly wounds.

So many of the people here need to be described to you by me, but can't you see, writing on these pages is a tiring feat.

So with a little rest, I'll be back, like sunrises that can't wait to see Israeli soldiers getting smacked.