She said.

She said.

Let’s knit a story, she said.
Of a boy wooden, she said.
He falls in love, she said.
With a doll of flame, she said.

He burns and she breathes.
Each other, they feed.
She is light and he is crackle.
Weaving dreams of forever.

But the wood runs out, she said.
And the flame cools down, she said.
Like this the story ends,
She is smoke and he is ash, she said.

-Saif.

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That could have been.

That could have been.

The strings are rusty and fingers numb,
but I sing for you my bewildered one,
with a heavy heart and a trembling voice,
under the shade of this starry night,

I sing for a world that could have been.

On the moonlit rooftop,
beneath the cloudy canvas,
I knit a river of words unspoken,
meanwhile passes a shooting star,

and I wish for a world that could have been.

-Saif.

3 am.

3 am.

It’s 3 am and my eyes don’t close.
It’s 3 am and the tears don’t come.
Dry is the well and empty the chest.
It’s 3 am and I’m dead.

-Saif.

 

Blood and glass.

Blood and glass.

Shattered glass and broken lamps,
walls painted scarlet,
a fire that roars in a world that crumbles.

Amidst it all,
is a soul so desolate,
stuck beneath the weight of all he once cherished.

As his body melts like wax,
pain is not what hurts,
it’s the epiphany that he never once lived.

-Saif.

“I prefer having nightmares than pleasant dreams.” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I’d rather wake up from a nightmare than wake up into one.” she replied.

-Saif.