Dear B.

My empty body is in mourning. It is the silent retreat after the bloody struggle of the hormones followed by the sudden expulsion of the cursed pregnancy.

I wish you were here to swallow the remains. I can’t even think of a word defining what I feel for you.

I am spending these days, taking care of my mother. She doesn’t remember anything anymore. Her yellow teeth and blemishing hands are scaring me. They are announcing a death I am not prepared for.

I will soon start preparing the murabas for winter. The berries are ripe and sweet. I will gently caress them, roll them between my fingers and passionately slide them one by one in the intense sweetened stream. The smell will definitely mesmerize my senses. And once they immerse completely in the syrupy emulsion, I will close my eyes, drop my hands and exhale through a cinnamon and glove orgasm.

The ruins in this city can’t contain all the emotions that I release abruptly.

I kiss religiously the palms of your hands and smell a mulberry breeze between your fingers,

L.