Here by Dalia Al Shurman

Posted on February 7, 2014 by


“I remember nights you’d sit there, at 4AM wearing my ugly, over-sized blouse, knee-socks, and the kitchen counter, alone. How I’d tease and tell you I’m more a tea person than coffee, and you’d laugh as I claim my desire for bitterness only, and only when it tastes like you. My dear, I still taste like you. “Baby,” I’d smirk, “Why is it you’ve got a rivalry with tea?”, and with delight clearly made out through the dimness of these kitchen lights, you’d tell me how tea frequently burns your tongue – and knowing my reply -you’d argue that although both are boiled at the same temperature, coffee is evidently cooler in the presence of milk. It is then I melt your stiffness with tender kisses, like the way your morning coffee greats its sweetener. Lover, haven’t I told you, I memorized the swirls your fingers trace into the back of my neck, like those milk forms as it and darkness mesh into one? I ache for you and I to move as one, lips coinciding elegantly, inside of that sweater that appears to be made for two. Or at least that’s how I wore it for you. I remember you, with your legs spun around my middle, telling me how you believed you were electricity. How I made sure your being melted around me, proving you your being like water to me. I haven’t known anyone ever so clearly. Like I know, how your nose flushes red in the cold and the marks made on my skin as you clench onto me for warmth. “Rudolf”, I’d call you, and cradle you like the pages I’ve read you, over and over, until your eyes dosed off and begged to be caressed shut. I remember how I’d lay you beneath the sheets that smothered your bare skin, like I use to. How I kissed poems into your pores, inch by inch, until you understood when I claimed your beauty puts literature to shame. How your skin bubbles as my breath strokes it, and how our synchronized heartbeats almost wake the neighbors, nightly. Darling, it is nights like those I feel secure, that you and I are not still to the world, but the world is still to us. And at 5AM, when my tea kettle keeps you from closing your sleepy eyes, and our lips from meeting once more, you rush bare-foot across the kitchen floor, and I whisper
“Hurry back, my love, you left a hickey in the shape of a coffee stain beneath the edge of my jaw line.”

Posted in: Here