Phantom Phone Calls

Those phone calls that

I never made, remain

Unanswered

Their phantom rings getting

Louder with each passing

Second, making my ears

Bleed

I can see you

Calmly ignoring my

Non-existent calls

Deleting my unsent emails

Without reading them,

Blocking me everywhere,

Even in my own imagination

You return the gifts

That I never send

Never even opening them

Shahid, Neruda, Angelou,

Lorca, Ghosts all

Haunt me as I search

For nonexistent verses of Arabic

Little bits of magic

Hidden in the Quran

To bring back dead love

You mean well, you said

In that conversation

We never had, But

I can’t do this anymore

Comments

Some Other Time

We will be counting days again, till we say hello again— only for us to say goodbye again. We always knew we’d have to say our goodbyes one day. Then why does it hurt so? Even so, when we know it won’t be long before even goodbyes are a luxury. We cling to hopes— that this isn’t the only life we will live. That one day, we will meet again, in some other life, in some other time, where we won’t have to say G oodbye.

Undelivered Package

There is an uprising coming it was supposed to be here yesterday but I suppose it is lost in the mail who do I write to the website had no address only a small warning goods once sold can not be returned maybe I should have known then not to trust Nigerian princes with unclaimed millions and fully functional revolutions leftover from the days of the next war Maybe it is stuck at customs maybe it would have been better to wait for my cousin to travel in, so he could sneak it in packed neatly between airport toblerone and contraband iphones

In Barely Discernible Darkness

I will trace the Jhelum Across Your back with my fingers In barely discernible darkness It will form a paisley Drawn from the memory of An imagined Kashmir No language spoken by Man or Gods shall be Uttered that night Words will be melded, Sentences molded to form A new language of love The ink, a fine powdered Amethyst, shall dry as We write its grammar The quill tips, fashioned From old bones, shall Burn in its blaze The room will be Full of scorch marks In barely discernible darkness -- Tz

Tasenda

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