She spoke Arabic and Swahili
She'd say Upendo, Anta Habibi
I had so many things to say.
So many things about this impossible search for truth, so many things about the lives that get so meaninglessly consumed by it. So much biting resentment phrased in such language like flowing sheer silk in the tropics.
And yet. And yet, and yet. I just can't dwell on it because I am in love now like I have never been in love before - and let's face it, I know true love like the back of my own heartbeat. I wake up in love, I look around and see love, I breathe love into my lungs and fill my stomach with the nourishment of love. I live without worry, and without fear. I live without judgment, without attachment to outcomes. There is only love, and pure, uninterrupted joy.
There is a time and a place for everything, and this is the time and this is the place to be alive.
My god, how could anyone not be blown away with passion and awe just thinking about that. This enchantment has got me so high, I've been walking on the clouds for weeks.
And yet. And yet, and yet. How strange that life cannot embrace me in return, kiss my lips so softly, and then so fervently. How strange that it cannot slip its arms around me as I sleep, that I do not dream to the rhythm of its slumbering lub-dub. And where is its hand that it cannot be in mine when I walk into each new room of my destiny?
Yes, what a strange love this is, wherein I can feel my lover's endless passion, yet cannot feel his touch, cannot catch his eye. But it my mind's eye, I see his face; and there is only one face True Love could possibly have. In my mind's memory, I can feel his touch; and there is only one touch he could possibly have. In my heart, I feel his love.
And so I pick up the phone.
Life's too short for and yet.
Did he know your name?
Or the plans we made to go to New York City?