You know the one that stinks of cherry — Fake sweet The kind That doesn't quite convince… I stretched my smile Until the corners frayed Like split ends twisted into the same bun. You came to visit, so I brought myself to shower.
Wow, my friend. Brilliant. You came to visit, so I brought myself to shower. I had to stop there. That one line holds the whole weight of what it is to be loved through the hardest season. Not the performing of wellness. The smallest possible act of showing up, for someone else's sake, because they came. The institutional soap doing so much work from the very beginning. Fake sweet. The kind that doesn't quite convince. And the smile stretched until the corners frayed like split ends. The body giving away what the mouth won't say. And then the ending. No words, no eye contact, just a thumb moving across knuckles until the words come. That is what love looks like when everything else has been stripped away. Not grand. Just present. Just patient. This is devastating in the quietest way. MashaAllāh, my friend. 🥰🥺❤️🫶🏻✨️🕊🌹
My friend, this one was a hard one to write and even harder to share. The poems that live closest to the bone always are. But knowing you'll be there when I do — it makes the sharing possible. Thank you for that, always. 🤍🌿
My pleasure! Always here. Always. The poems closest to the bone are the ones that matter most, and you trusted this one into the world anyway. That takes courage every single time. So glad you shared it. MashaAllāh on you, my friend. 🥰❤️🫶🏻✨️🌹
Wow, my friend. Brilliant. You came to visit, so I brought myself to shower. I had to stop there. That one line holds the whole weight of what it is to be loved through the hardest season. Not the performing of wellness. The smallest possible act of showing up, for someone else's sake, because they came. The institutional soap doing so much work from the very beginning. Fake sweet. The kind that doesn't quite convince. And the smile stretched until the corners frayed like split ends. The body giving away what the mouth won't say. And then the ending. No words, no eye contact, just a thumb moving across knuckles until the words come. That is what love looks like when everything else has been stripped away. Not grand. Just present. Just patient. This is devastating in the quietest way. MashaAllāh, my friend. 🥰🥺❤️🫶🏻✨️🕊🌹
My friend, this one was a hard one to write and even harder to share. The poems that live closest to the bone always are. But knowing you'll be there when I do — it makes the sharing possible. Thank you for that, always. 🤍🌿
My pleasure! Always here. Always. The poems closest to the bone are the ones that matter most, and you trusted this one into the world anyway. That takes courage every single time. So glad you shared it. MashaAllāh on you, my friend. 🥰❤️🫶🏻✨️🌹