I hate when this love
leaves me,
and when I don’t feel you
in the stars.
When I don’t hear that 80s
vinyl crackle
in the way the leaves
rustle
on the street.
By the clearing where
the Bullet whirs,
and a wide-eyed girl
calls to the clouds,
I hate when this love
leaves me
and I don’t feel the Heavens
have come closer to meet me,
For I believe this sajda,
as the shaayars say,
exalts me in the eyes of God.
But this
ebb
and
flow
is unbearable.
I hate
that it’s unpredictable.
I want to feel you
in the stars.
But it’s bound to happen,
I suppose,
when the Palais Garnier
is your planetarium.
But even the Chagall
is not worth it.
Even the Chagall
cannot hide
that the Greek gods
who reside there
simply have my heart.
It’s not just the
frescoes where
“there’s a piece of God
staring back at you”—
The Cross
catches
the spotlight
and Jesus sings to me
a child…
The Heavens have returned
to the stars
but this love has not left me.
