Outside the Days Let me be granted the beauty of your voice, to watch the movement of your unseen apple on your throat. What time will my ears translate the moment into the language of my silent love for you, the man I live everyday to spread my arms to his earthen body, bright mind, heavenly soul. I wait for you to tell me I can stand between my silence and you to uncover and retell you everyday of my longing for you. I long for you. I long for you. I long for you. I long for you. I long for you. My voice isn't still, my hands aren't. I want to tremble when you look at me even if you never love me as I love you. I don't question the love I feel for you, and when I question, I can't find the smallest doubt, a reason not to love you. There is no reason to love you. You are the reason. I envision you talk about god, about man, and I will think of the spring, the right left, the left foot, the dust on my skin that needs your touch. You'll talk about politics and I'll hear a river, a flame, the wisdom, the laughter. You'll talk about something that I don't know. I'll listen to my heart, its madness, its secret, its blossoming with each word, when it reads your words. Who are you in whom I open my chest to hand the walnuts I collected as a little girl in Shomal (north) by the Caspian Sea. Who are you? In whom I show the most inner side, the vegetable garden in my home. Who are you with whom I break into waves when touching me as a grown woman? Who are you for whom I drop these notes, in white, in red, in green, in blue, in familiar-unfamiliar senses and smells, in love and little flowers. I am not writing to you unknowingly. I am not calling you unknowingly. I am not naked with you unknowingly. I don't love you unknowing the fact that you are the fact. That you are love. That you are a man I won't spend my days with in the known way. A man who will never love me as I love him, a man who writes beyond my years, a man who may only be a gift at this point in my life. Ah, how I want this point to never sleep. Gather me. Pull me. Comb me. Turn your face. Here I am. See me. Here I am round the corner from your eyes. See me. Falling on the earth. Here I am with hands cupped in your words, in love with the writer, the man who walks all too fast, all too soon, all too far. Here is this woman who wakens to you: I love you little boy, grown man, wild soul, you, always a beloved.
Now you know it. You know these and you should know that I love you in long, tall, short, fast, slow, happy, sad, sick, healthy, sleep, awake, busy, easy, day, night. I love you a second or hours away. I love you in the water, when taking a shower. I love you tired, cold, warm, and hot. I love you now. Now. Now. I love you now and beyond the sky that will hold me forever. The shallow grave, the deep earth, the threes, the leaves that will fall over me or maybe it is the water that will hold me forevermore. I love you in life and death. I love you borderless, orderless, and timeless even though my time has limitations, even though I don't live forever, even though all there is may be these words that I write this second to you. I love you pageless, wordless, weightless, ageless, bodiless, bootless, and shirtless. I love you deep, heavy, holding my body or not. Deep in my soul I love you for no reason I know. I love you for one reason only: you.
We are not lovers yet, yet I walk with you while I gather me on your ground, off your ground. I isolate myself. I expose myself. I collect and expand. I am small as your palm or as big as your heart. I love you inside the life I live, outside the days I don't. Whose life am I living? Am I leaving and therefore I ask? I sit next to you on the bus, in the car, at home. I walk next to you in the street. I feel your hands on my henna dyed hair so when I wash it, it runs on my skin, the skin on my body, the body that holds my heart, the heart that loves you. The desires that wave through my body, little by little, trail on my skin. The skin that holds me, embraces my senses, my emotions, my nerves, my ferns. What should I call you? A lake? The song? The single syllable? I read you again and again and over. I gather my fingers one by one. Put my faith and fate in them and write to you. They never leave me. You never leave me even the day you leave or the day I don't write again. I am the water sign. I pour on you as the rain. I clean you when you take a shower. I wash your dishes in me. I spring back and forth in your hands. I arrive always on your skin, between your eyelids. In your mouth, when you drink, when you spill me. When your foam recovers and forms and shapes to reshape. I love you, like no poet has ever loved a poet, like no writer has loved another. Like no artist has desired the muse. Like you never can imagine how I want you to fill me more, to braid-unbraid my hair. Let your fingers run through my lips. On the face. And down my belly.
But for Now There are few things that are truly my essence. One is when writing. Two is in love making and third when I am loving. All three have one thing in common: Love. Love in the form of fire shapes and burns throughout my body, throughout my words. I become whole. I burn and the burning lights and guides me to seek you, magnifies so that I can find and follow your tracks to finally be born of your left eye, to maybe an Amaterasu in Shinto without fleeing. What is to shame from loving you? Why should loving you have reason beside the reason: You. Am I in a female Sannyasa stance even when there is no word to describe a woman in such a stage in Hinduism? Wandering after you? Wondering where the road will lead me? But then again I am not detached; my passion is not experiencing a vairagya. In fact I am carrying out the symbolic act of loving you. When I perform Puja in these words; it is because I am purifying my center, to have you as my Sri Yantra for my meditation. Va Man Adhlamo Mem-man Mana'a (and who is more unjust than he who forbids — Surah: Al-Baqara, Verse 2:114,) and who is the unjust, my beloved? Aren't you when you question my devotion, when I am already suffering, when my suffering has a name, the four noble truths? Am I not a woman who tries and tries to approach you without you returning her love, who herself questions all her values, her belief system yet she manages to have the Kiswah all around her naked figure to walk round and around you? I am devoted to you. I am devoted beyond the pillars, beyond scripts, beyond Hagar's feet ranging back and forth for the water to spout out through the rock, beyond Sarah's birth to Isaac past her fertility. I love you beyond the communal prayers. I love you beyond creeds, beyond codes, communities and cults. I am incarnated and reincarnated as this woman who loves you. Of all the ways, of all the faiths I chose you. Being loved by you will be my Rosh Hashanah but for now this is my Wu Wei, I let go to find you, whichever the forces are, whoever you are because I live the most when you draw in a fistful grain of rice the symbol, the wheel of law. I hum mantras; I hum your name in my writings. I hum when making love to you. I hum when you enter me, when I hold my hands on the pillow or the wall, the bed frame, or whatever I get my hands on, you enter me and I arrive wave after wave, a pleasure that is my worth life time, to be in your hands, my beloved.