2:47 by Meshael Al Blehed

Posted on October 4, 2013 by


I carry geographies across my chest, but it’s too dark to see. Light has been outlawed and I will mistake the metaphor for truth; I am a pen in the dark, but still speechless.
The back and forth is just back, back, back. Fraying the nerves at the tips of my fingers in anticipation of writing something at the slightest.
I promised I wouldn’t run and I chained my feet to the ground, but I can’t help it if I’m miles away sailing in the blank white of my paper.

I’m writing in the dark again.

I saw your moon unhinge itself from the red thread that held it up to the sky. It fell and it was so lackluster and underwhelming that I couldn’t see it all the way to the ground.
But my consolation is that some places learn to make their own stars, so I’m never really in the dark.

And after an eternity spent in that nook in my brain called “wit’s end”, I look up and it’s just 2:48.

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