Grief is a well that never dries up. Grief is a river. Grief is a cloud. Grief is a stormy afternoon by the sea. Grief is a night sky with no stars.

Grief is an endless summer night with air too heavy to sleep or breathe. The window is open but no air will come through.

It’s been a year and I’m still waiting for the moment my heart will sing whenever I think of you. I am still waiting for the quiet calm peace. I am waiting for the moment the words no longer feel trite. I am forgetful…

Photo by elCarito on Unsplash

I grew up inside of a language and carved it into a home. When I go back to visit it is boarded up and the door is locked shut. I feel some relief. I’m afraid I would not know my way around the rooms if I were to walk inside. I grew up inside of a poem and then I wandered out and lost the music of it. In Arabic the words are shaped the exact way you are meant to feel them. The word “hold” wraps itself around you tight, round and warm (dumm). Arabic says has a special…


soft scrambled words

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