Ya amar.
Translation from Arabic: "My moon".
A letter to my lover.
Ya Amar,
I atone for our memories that dwell worshipped in this withering heart. Often, knives singe into its oblique chambers, tuning for a reprise of your sinless joy. I fight everyday, my urge to indulge in its beauty, but I cannot do otherwise, than to contain this sacred bond, for it being as contagious as your smile, will sicken my body. I have sinned, attempting to bottle your affection that is beyond finite— but I assure you that it thrives in the shrines of my soul; a home belonging to you. Darling, I call you my moon, because you are a sight to behold, wuthering waves in this barren vessel. The currents grow stronger with the distance that parts us; They flood my eyes more than I will admit. I feel obliged, and painstakingly so, to inform you that my love engulfs my body like malady; It is far too seething and excruciating for this chest which quivers upon hearing you. For the suffering you cause me, I have a few demands which you shall fulfil: My voice is not as melodious as yours, but I long to sing lullabies every night. My toes fail to lift me to the height of your lips; It is your duty to help me. My mind, wired in random streaks of knowledge, articulates truth rather absurdly. I seek your patience in understanding me. Here are my grudges thus far: What do I do when I am overcome with so much love, that the only word that slips from my mind, is your name? You ask me to speak, but I cannot garner letters caught in my throat, and when I do, they struggle to coin my euphoria. Like roses that do not bloom without thorns, ruptures sculpt our love. Why do your lips glee at the agony it causes my cheeks; flushed, red and grinning. At last, promise me: The child in you that squeals; Even if we part, you will protect him.
cue: “I Wouldn’t Know Any Better Than You” by Gentle Bones.
