The first time I met her, all of my life, sat on that empty chair beside her while she spoke. Her name was Palestine, a name divinely chosen for a face so divine. She held all of my existence in the depth of her eyes.
She had moved to Toronto from Baghdad less than six months ago. A warrior blessed by the water of Tigris, she blessed the coffee shop in which we sat. Every eye and mechanical chat fought for space at the bottom of her feet, just to feel sweet, being so close to those crowns for the streets.
The way she curved the smoke filled hours of the night with her words held court on the highway resort. Small bags stuffed with sugar danced to the sensational rhythm of her tongue.
I feared losing Palestine on a conveyor belt of empty boxes. I threw my love across her seas. My eyes begged please for a taste of her lips. In awe, walls began fearing the weight of her smile.
Moments lined up themselves along the edge of the table, staring at her might. Her fingers sparkled with life in the face of winter's death. I would lose my breath if I counted all the beauty in her strength.
Iraq, personified. Time, wisdom, strength, grief, and poetry coloured her armoured cheeks. Her name was Palestine, and that is how we met.