You know, I think more and more often
that I should go back.
Maybe I’ll meet you. And happiness?
Happiness is being sad together.

So I look through the moonlit window
and listen.
Nothing. A breeze stirs somewhere.
Alone among the leaves - the moon.

Like a golden wheel it rolls
above the windblown leaves.
Such moons, only paler,
shone over the Vistula.

Even the Big Dipper on its course
stops in a tree at midnight,
just like at home. But why here?
Truly, I don’t know.

What’s here? Longing and sleepless nights,
unknown streets and somebody’s verse.
I live here as a nobody:
a Displaced Person.

I think of you. I know I must leave.
Perhaps we can return to our past,
but I know neither what youth will be like
nor where you are.

But I’m yours or no one’s
forever. Listen,
listen, read this poem
if somewhere you are alive.

— "You know, I think more and more often", Tadeusz Borowski

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I hadn’t told them about you, but they saw you bathing in my eyes. I hadn’t told them about you, but they saw you in my written words. The perfume of love cannot be concealed.

— Nizar Qabbani

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What happened, happened once. So now it’s best
in memory — an orange he sliced: the skin
unbroken, then the knife, the chilled wedge
lifted to my mouth, his mouth, the thin
membrane between us, the exquisite orange,
tongue, orange, my nakedness, and his,
the way he pushed me up against the fridge —
Now I get to feel his hands again, the kiss
that didn’t last, but sent some neural twin
flashing wildly through the cortex. Love’s
merciless, the way it travels on
and keeps emitting light. Beside the stove
we ate an orange. And there were purple flowers
on the table. And we still had hours.

— Kim Addonizio, Stolen Moments

(Source: fables-of-the-reconstruction)

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Here, we measure the heat in
clammy hands and strawberries.
Under the shade,
I reach for something high,
something gone,
and show the world my navel.
You traveled deserts for this well.
You threw penny kisses in it,
listened for the plunk.
Here, we measure the heat in
warm breath and whispers.

Here, we listen for the sound of
shared popsicles and leaving trains
and learn to follow that.
Under the shade,
I reach for something low,
something grassy and damp
and let you see my knees groveling,
my hands soil-searching.
You watched me bend for you.
You let me become beggar for you,
become dirt and drivel for you.
Here, we measure the heat in
how many cold shoulders we learned
to leave behind, how many winters
we have learned to un-miss.

— "June", Ramna Safeer

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