I come into love like a glistening fruit,
blushing and rotting. A photograph depicts
desire, Sontag writes on eternity, my face alit
on a singular flame built in desire for your hunger.
Our hunger built on stone houses, the peeling of my walls
and your hands. The secrets of our desires.
I am hung like the French, hungry for you,
mouth-wide open mid-spelling.
We are adults, no tears but I always cry now
like a new-born child. All teeth and gums.
Centaurs gaze as I pull our tarot cards out, one by seven,
foretelling past and future. Where do we hide our secrets?
There must be a magic hanging in the air
watching us like hidden jinn. All mystery and fire
I ask you to burn me in bed. It only takes three seconds
before skin scalds to the third degree, I read, thighs starving.
I theorise you page by page, hands and eye.
Your mouth on my breast, desire embodied.
You look so beautiful in desire. I memorise your gaze
how your eyes turn black when we meet.
Your burdens rest on my back, moving from your shoulders.
Therapise with me. A cup of hot coffee, freshly rolled
cigarettes. I shake you in a field. We play hide and seek,
the prayer ringing when you touch me, our hands tracing each other.
I become a concept, an abstraction of your determination.
I don’t need an oracle for this, not for you.
I’m overwhelmed in the presence of time with you.
How you lull the strings of fate to patiently wait
for us to finish with each other.

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leena aboutaleb is an Egyptian and Palestinian writer, primarily searching for fruiting trees to sleep under. She can be virtually located @na5leh on Twitter.