Mekh, if I were a story
and you, my reader which certainly you are.
I don’t have to be your happily ever after.
I can be your meanwhile
I can be your perhaps
I can be a comma, a dash, a space in between paragraphs
I don’t have to be an ending, not even a period
I can be a fragment
I can be your lesson learned.
I can be your 0400 a.m. coffee,
the night sky on a cold, early dawn
I can be ink on your paper
whenever you feel the urge to write anything.
I can be a late-night tryst with vodka and saltwater tears
you can read off sonnets and phrases from the lines on my skin
and drink deep from the creases on my lips.
I can become your dream,
leaving once the sun’s first rays touch your fingers.
I will not ask you to choose me, nor will I promise that I will eventually want you more than I do now.
Let us be each other’s deep breaths. Let us be each other’s secret. Put ourselves in a box of interlocked arms, sheets and legs,
And tell no one…. I love you.