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Your hands hold mine as if in a noose

knowing perhaps that i'm not happy

but i'll never be able to extricate myself from you

may be i'm not even willing to

so everynight

I bury my head in pillows

my fingers claw at sheets

our feet keep touching

I only write in mornings

when my hair is still a mess 

 

Reviews

[Poeticadia]

The thoughts and feelings of the entire day all concentrate themselves on night in the shared space of sleeping... too close and yet not close enough. For me, what's still left lingering turns up in poems early the next morning, written before anything else gets done... and that's what i read into this concise but expressive and skilfully composed poem.

[Emily B]

oh, Sahar, you've stopped my heart. So achingly beautiful. Paul hit the nail on the head.

[paul]

stunningly, achingly beautiful

[Siddhartha]

institutionalized i think. bound by love, lost and found...and writing an outlet to bring forth the emotions suppressed...

[NoneOfYourBusiness akaK..]

the mess of our own days hold a thousand poems wiggling to be poured onto the pages of our hours~ great use of line placement and edit to enhance the emotive quality~

[Jibey]

It seems we often stay where we are... touching from time to time... and write despite the mess...