Solitude, Nashville, and a Poem
I wrote this back when I was living in Nashville, struggling with a 9-5 life and wondering about a time when things were much simpler. Back when I was growing up in the Middle East and moving around so much with my family, life teemed with a kind of freedom that is difficult to find these days. The kind that shields you from the true absurdity of being a human being. And now, freedom means that ~I’m~ the one who has to pay her own bills. It also means I get to love-- whomever I want, however much I desire— and I think that's worth it.
Eight Hours
How precious you are
How sleek the way you move.
Gliding against the tides of time
Kissing strangers in New American restaurants or
Melting into the thuds of a 9 am keyboard.
Eight Hours.
What a grueling last name-
Hours.
“Hi, my name is Eight.
I’m the eldest of twenty four,
Fourth heir to the kingdom of time.
My duty is to succeed.
Seven after eight,
Eight after seven.
But I like
Mangoes in the monsoon even more.
When I was an early Eight, I met a love.
We were sweethearts in college;
In Rome and Sadley
Agra and Amsterdam
Sylhet and Salalah.
When we were married in Buraidah,
A long, long time ago
She would nibble at my ears and
Make me dream.
Where Eight was
Two Hundred Thousand stars in space.
Floating on magma and
Dreaming a Dream in a Thought
(I’d do anything for you (in the dark)).
Content in a teacup.
A casket of nibbled ears
And her.
When we were married in Buraidah,
A long, long time ago
She left me.
Or really, I left her and haven’t seen her since.
She had gorgeous eyes. The
Warm ones; The
Dark, hazelnut ones that could
Make you fall into a perpetual dream where
Eight can be Two Hundred Thousand butterflies in the ocean,
Swimming for three summer days.
I am Eight.
My mother is god.
One god.
I am eight.
I am sipping
Hot chocolate in a crowded cafe on 21st Ave and
Wondering about love.
Not the Buraidah kind of love,
But maybe something new.
A different kind of solitary love that you
Find in long, summer walks or
The fluttering ruffles of a white dress.
I dream to be Nine, even Ten, one day.
Ten Hours in Eight.
I would give one to the divine
And ask her, ‘How do you love?’
My other hour,
Ninth of Eight,
I would give
To all the solitary hearts in this world
And tell them to be brave.”
