Count the Moments What is there to confess? That I love you like my land? That you are my land? That I want to take you in, to take me in? That I love you and I see the right from the wrong? That I am a misplaced name in your notebook? That I am afraid of feeling this dependency, that I miss you because I do miss you. I am afraid of finishing my journal and leaving you in between my letters, and my words. I ask myself what is this joy, this suffering, this longing for you. A person who will not come to pick me up from the station, who has no idea who I am even if he came, how I don't dress up, how I don't sit in an armchair, how I express myself, how I never remember birthdays, and anniversaries, how I find valentine's day a money wasting celebration, how I drive in a highway, how I clean the kitchen, and the bathrooms in my home every day, how is the taste of my cooking, how my fingers peel in spring sometimes, and how easy it is for me to arrive.
I don't want to return to poetry. I love these writings and I love you because you awoke and reassure my prose. Will you let me hold you close to my heart, to read to you? With my eyes, will you let me look into yours? Will you let me count the moments I have missed on you? Don't ask me to undress. You won't find me under the clothing. I will only be another native, another woman whose image will then fade away.
Thousand and One I don't think in the terms of absolute and excitement. Perhaps the truth coordinates my feelings, the senses, finding relief in my own words. To those who have not passed their mismanaged minds I should seek solitude in their ways, their perceptions, and their control of logic as they understand it. They want me to repent because I am unlike them because their norms are not sufficient for me to regulate myself according to what satisfies them. You know beloved, reputation doesn't cramp my body; I don't cross dress to survive them. I have survived their gender discrimination. I don't fear. I know what is real from fiction. I know what is wrong from right. I know they are the type who clap and dance in the streets of Tehran for lifeless bodies hanging from the ropes. If they have left the country they haven't left their discriminatory brain employments by traditions, and religious misrepresentations. Marriage life provides them an evidence to account themselves for being normal. I am not them. To me normal is tragic. I am not naive, ignorant, or cruel. I don't convict people because of their religion, their faith, their gender, their sexual orientation, their social status, and their political views. Perhaps to them I am a witch they should burn. I question their morals. I exceed them and that is why they don't see you through my eyes. Beloved, you are beyond. In you I have found someone who doesn't insist, doesn't banish, doesn't hate, and doesn't forbid. Your words brought me a world that I had not read before. Nothing until you, confirmed I am not alone. I don't look at you as a reference. I don't base my prose on yours. I don't follow others. I follow me but you are my inspiration. I identify myself with you. I recognize you. Your words are not abstract to me. You are a thousand and one other things. I love you naked from voice, from want, from sooner, from later, from anguish, and from waiting.
I Wake Up Early I wake up early in the hope of grasping my dreams. I wake up so that I can share my secret with you before you deprive me of your care, before my conscious preoccupies me with everything that doesn't dignify you. Let me touch you before the pianist finishes playing his last note, before fireflies wonder back to their hiding places, and day emerges to erase your seconds' away image from the room. These are desires that aren't poisonous. Do I write what every woman thinks? Every exile asks for? Every human wants? I don't know. I am not a messenger. I am not a savior. I am not an impulsive writer either. I don't listen to a particular music. I don't have poetry on my side anymore. I know I don't like liars. I don't like opportunists. I don't like inconsistency in accepting human rights as facts and not as what is in fashion today. I don't see romance in lighting candles, and having roast beef on the table when children die of hunger, and when candles were the means for me to study at a time when there was no electricity because of the bombings. When regardless of the air raids, I had to prepare for the next day's exam only to fail. I don't see any reasoning to try and explain I am not enthusiastic about what is thought of my prose. That I am married and what I write for you is what I want to, what I love to do, that I make love to you over and over, and loving you doesn't make me less of a wife, a mother, a woman, a human in love. I love you. Your truthful writings are what have brought me faith in humanity. You don't try to possess me even if I want you. You let me own my own mind, my own deed, my own body. You let me stitch and sew as it is said in Persian on my terms. I love you for the butterfly you have emerged in my body. I love you for letting my fingers touch your lips, your neck, your shoulders, your arms, and take your hands to my lips. You arouse me without asking me to dissolve in you. You recognize my senses, my sensuality, and my instinctive devotion to your complete balance of mind, body, and soul.
The Timetable The timetable shows infinity now. The power of words perhaps lay in the truth they carry otherwise you have read and felt similar writings over the years, you know, I do want. I do like to see the sun's reflection on your face, to know how you close your eyes and open them into your dreams. Dreams that will never happen in reality and the strangers may never stretch their arms to hold and retain one another with passion but dreams are welcome. Dreams that erase the heartaches, don't need to be formulated, and don't have to be some stolen contacts in order to attain sanity of the mind and the body. One character loves another, the other doesn't suspend, just takes it without a need for evidence. You take me in without suggestions. You don't need details. You accept. There is no resentment. No narrowing the eyes. You are willing to adapt because you don't need enrichment. You don't need my justification. You are grand in accepting what life offers you now. Even if it arrives in the form of my words written from over here and clearly not following an institutional order, enjoying a freedom only obtainable in these words and within these borders. Words that may never end or may disappear the same way they arrived knocking at your window. I have discovered you. I don't follow rules. I follow my moral code. My feelings are what they are. I will not deprive me of you. I can't just innovate a new order for my day. You do know the world I was brought up in, the world of love, the world of senses.
The Other Night The other night you woke up crying in your dream. I told you these hands are taking away your pain. Look, and shadowed my fingers over your face and threw the night out of your sky. I swirled the sadness out of you. I asked you to feel the warmth, the friendship, the love. Now your lips are mist from my blaze of tongue. Your soul is no longer embroidered. The grapes are artistically and authentically stomped to originate a life long taste of my supply of a non alcoholic drink, my love. Even the sea has its deforming waves, waves that fall together but then release to learn, to examine, to cherish, to drunken the hearts, to show courage to ride, to write, to change, to absorb and give birth. I offer you a taste of creation minus the soaring poetry. I rise and rinse but before that I wrap my legs around you, not suggestively but pure earthly. The earth that embraces the soil. The air that holds them both, the fire that murmurs the touch before returning to the foundation, to the sea, to the earth, to be the fire, to be the breathing air coming out of your lungs. I know you don't need me to invent a new way to grasp your breathing with my mouth. I know you don't need me to brush your cheeks with my lashes. I know you don't need me to circulate my fingers on your chest. I know you don't need me sweep you off your feet. I know you don't need me to invade your softness into potent movements. You know, I do know I don't have to offer you my mouth to direct you into ecstasy, to want to fill me. You already have filled me, made me accustomed to your presence. You haven't asked for it but unknowingly, you have guided me into writing down words that perhaps have been faithful secrets until I decided to journal them. I do believe in god. I don't believe in religions. I do believe in man, I don't believe in the middlemen. I do want peace but not before there is a democracy. I love life but not if it is a life in threads. I prefer exile if that is what brings me sanity. I like the sun but only if I can share the light, and its warmth. I like to drink water but only when I know everyone has enough supply of clean water. I like to sleep but only if it is next to you.