We hope for fish, Dad and me, we
smell of sunscreen and marine diesel
and the kelp-fishy smell of lake.
Author: abudhabiwritersadmin
hange my relationship to the person asking it. And often, in a substantial way. I never found the right way to navigate being a foreigner, mainly because my idea of home is distorted; the country on my passport, Syria, was a place I’d only visit in the summer. And I am indeed very proud to be Syrian, and I still tell people that I am from Syria.
The pain and sorrows are so deep
Leap out of me
I’m ending the year in the same place I began it—on my balcony, coffee cup in hand, notebook open. I don’t know about you, but even though I’m in the same place, it feels different. Sometimes change is quick and obvious, but most times I find it sneaks up on me. December certainly snuck up behind me, but here we are, at the end of another year that has witnessed our community transform. And I think it’s worth stepping back and appreciating all that has changed before we go charging into 2024.
See these years,
they have passed,
long and hard,
but
fleeting
still.
I’ve been ill-used, no other word will do;
pristinely packaged, sanitised and new
a month ago I stood upon display
till someone paid to carry me away…
Let’s emulate Liberia
with measurements superior;
once more we’ll weigh our cereal
in ounce and pound imperial…
I don’t want to stay here anymore
A groan of tedium, escapes my core
In the distance, I see the light
But it feels like I’m healing the blight…
On a misty Sunday morning, I walk in to my balcony, yawning and greeting the day with a coffee. I tune in to the week’s e-sports telecast…
That fat pig! And then they would blame me for being on the booze every day. The old curved exotic body had gone away. If it wasn’t for other young chicks…
The fingers played gracefully on the keys. My eyes rolled following the clicks. Porcelain, long fingers, extended by vinous painted nails. The forefingers ornamented with bright henna…
I’m always late! Green like her eyes … no, they are lighter: greyish a bit. I lost her as usual. The green still far. I push as hard as I can…
I struggled to separate my stuck eyelids while inside winds shook my head. Light from the window added up to my eye fight.
“Yasser!”
I liked the way you’d pull my hand under your skirt under restaurant tables,
The way you smelled when you were turned on.
I liked the cheap hotel rooms…
I am tired.
No.
I am destroyed.
From the pain of losing the one…
Abu Dhabi Writers' Cafe 