Stockholm Cairo

I miss the chimney smoke exuding everywhere.

How the grey overpowers the blue and creates a melange of nature versus broken civilization,

How discrepancies and injustices have become routine but more so,

how we feel obliged to be pre-cautious when dealing with the system,

as though parents of a nagging child

that won’t stop crying in public transportation because all they see around

are the instinctively-repulsive scenes

of sexual assault.

But more so,

not the assualt that is repulsive as much as the surrender.

Her complexion is as muddy as her clouds, but she is picturesque.

You still miss her long queues, you still miss the way he held you tightly without your own consent

How he forced himself upon you.

At first you were intrigued by the mere idea of belonging to someone else,
but intrigued lay closer to the side of fear and repulsiveness.

But day after day with him, year after year with her, you grew your intrigue like your cacti, with little to water to flower it with, but stringent and enduring it grew, proving to be unlikely but possible.

So when you were released from him, from her, you found little meaning in life.

Freedom and independence were soon words smudged by others as they relentlessly spit it into your mouth to believe.

So you look back at the days of imprisonment and you think, were things ever as grey as they seemed? Wouldn’t you rather choose it?

And this is a disease my dear,

your little Stockholm syndrome got you down for months on end.

You still want your little beloved Cairo,

but it is not your hometown, it is not family, and it is not your loved one.

It will be a colorful reunion for minutes in the airport before it shifts to another grey streak from the very long wait at the baggage claim, to barely hailing an overpriced taxi, to almost getting home on time, and collapsing on your bed fidgeting with remote buttons realizing the electricity is cut off and waking up to the noise of traffic at too late in the afternoon when the shops have only started opening.

It is too late to love you,

you’re not my beloved,

you are, in essence, abusive.

From the Florist by the Corner

where do you buy it from, babe

where do you get it from

do you happen to find it walking right next to you


on  the parallel sidewalk pavement




where do you stumble upon its fragrance


how do you track that motherfucker down




do you follow its footsteps in the snow


or do you kick through its gold in the autumn leaves




does it let you in its home


does it have a welcome mat


or do you just walk in on its tea mornings


and late cocktail parties





do you try to remind it of your 5-day schedule




how it needs to show up sometime soon




or does it barge in on you unexpected at 2 in the morning 




does it try to make it more bearable or is it like the surging pain




of period cramps right before your monday 8 ams





does it let you breathe in your prayer


or is it the ominous silence in the bathroom





when the clock ticks too loud for life to go unnoticed


and when the grumble from the laundromat begs to be heard


when your stomach shrugs from too much thought


and your mind throbs


dying on the inside from the absence of closure



 


is it like a chameleon constantly changing its guise?


or is it the same sleep-killing chirping of the birds at the breaking of dawn?


does it ever come pass you by when you miss it in afternoon coffee breaks


or does it find you rolled up in a blanket with your third cup of coffee at midnight



 


where do you buy your meaning, babe


where do you find that sense of purpose




it’s written all over you in colors I have not found the names for


but I hope to wear it as proudly as you do when it finds me




if it finds me



 


so just tell me,


where do you buy it, babe?

 


 

Estranged

But it is scary.

My dear,

they will tell you travelling makes you who you are in faster ways than home ever will.

They will tell you that the experience is inexplicably wondrous.

That those who have not travelled, have not lived fully.

But they don’t tell you of the little feeling when your stomach shrugs back from foreign food.

They don’t tell you that you only thought the city was picturesque when you didn’t wake up to its blasting sunlight everyday.

That the smoke looked pretty in pictures and was medium for art but will slowly kill your lungs if you stay longer than a couple of months.

But most importantly,

that you will call it ‘foreign’

even though everyone around is at home.

Because it will terrify you

to realize that

you

are the foreign one.

Because the land out there once opened its arms for your embrace

for it has always been home waiting for you to tread past it and brush against its sleeves

but you only came for days and deserted it.

As if it were foreign.