I don't think I can ever quiet this craving for your eyes, shining as if you could be beauty incarnate beneath all that vanity. They'll ask me about the true nature of my feelings for you on my deathbed; I’ll have to explain that desire was an acceptable chaser for my disgust and watch as my tomb is turned to char so your world may bloom. If we were better people, I might take you as my wife. Instead I warn my butch brothers of your mind games and always come home to your inbox, more patient than the gentleman you’ll marry one day. I’ll go to bed nauseated by your laughter but wake up tender to the way your voice tugs on my name, how you yearn for me like a coward. Those eyes—the kind I’d have devoted my life to in the motherland—they pursue me through all my waking hours. Why would I pine for paradise, when it is right in front of me? I’d stay forever in the periphery of this dunya to ensure I never forget how your lashes flutter and curl under this city’s streetlights. No woman will ever get under my skin the way you have, but I would rather die than let you rob another kiss from my lips with those eyes, kismet rimmed with kajol. Mash’Allah, mash’Allah, you are a testament of God’s glory. May you haunt me into an early grave.
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