Literature

کبير

"He was really attractive," my cheeks flush.

"Babe, are you jealous?"

Maybe.

"No, of course not."

He smirks, his arms wrapping around me. I can't breathe. He always steals my breath. My heart is working overtime, trying to keep up with his touch, as his fingers skim over the marks on my neck.

"Mine," he whispers.

It's enough to send chills down my spine.

I think I know what he saw in Mason. Passion and drive. The fire in his eyes.

It was once in Zayn's eyes. He felt something for Mason, returned that fervor. He has a kind soul and an earnest heart.

Mason's heart is made of stone. Stones are cold and stones are not easily moved.

I feel sorry for stones. They're always being weathered and displaced.

Zayn tried to be a soft wave, crashing upon him but his force was too much, so the stone was washed away.

He says he's different now. What does that make him?

Is he no longer a stone? Has he kindled a fire in his heart?

Maybe Zayn wasn't a wave at all. Maybe he waded through rough waters. Maybe he crossed the entire ocean only to meet someone who didn't love him back. Maybe Mason was the promise of land, golden sands on a sought after shore.

He endured turbulent storms and fearsome currents.

And all that time he was afraid to swim.

If he ever gets lost out at sea again I'll be his life raft. We can drift endlessly together, trying to reach that line, where the orange horizon meets the crystal blue water.

"Still I look in the mirror and wonder what you see in me."

"If a mirror ever makes you sad, you should know that it does not know you."

"Kabir," I exhale.

"You know he mixed elements of Islam and Hinduism. He was an Indian mystic poet and saint. I'm not sure but I also think he applied Sikh philosophy. His name means The Great in Arabic. It works perfectly because his mind was great but his heart was greater."

I smile, listening intently to his lesson. I'm always learning, always craving more of his words.

His words are my oxygen but I think he knows.

I figure it's ironic, that he takes my breath away, because he has never deprived me of oxygen.

He keeps the blood pumping in my veins.

A red river.

"The river that flows in you also flows in me."

His eyes glimmer, impressed by my knowledge of the revered poet.

There is dew
on these poems in the morning,
and at night a cool breeze may rise from them.

In the winter they are blankets, in the summer a place to swim.

I like talking to you like this. Have you moved
a step closer?

Soon we may be
kissing.

It's like he reads my thoughts, his body leaning into mine, our lips connecting.

oceans
and
mirrors
and
morning dew