mismatch
Al Reem Al Nuaimi we’re not going to be in love,
but i would love it if you remembered how much sadness i can hold in the evenings or why tulips remind me of heavy rain on days that feel like Adam suffocating Eve. we’re not going to be in love,
we’re always going to be naked, our legs intertwined
and our knees bruised, purple and blue because we forgot how to pray
on fridays and learned how to find pleasure in worshipping each other’s feet.
we’re not going to be in love,
not even close, not even enough to stop you
from tugging at the stitches of our newest wounds
that we hide from our friends because it would kill them if they knew that my sorrows dance with the angels of your speech. we’re not going to be in love,
going to be thirty-three, looking back
at the honey-covered lies and the mornings spent stealing each other’s warmth because we were too selfish to learn how to live with the cold breeze. we’re not going to be in love,
to try is to ask the sky to turn green or the ground
to start growing the missing parts of our bodies that you and i refuse to share after the clock strikes four on the nights that you make me weep. we’re not going to be in love,
be harsh with me, tell me that this is not forever,
that we are fooling each other with our hands in each other’s pants and our hearts too stubborn to fall from those grieving trees.
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