I sit to write what is to be my first novel,
and the cursor blinks at me.
I stare at the white screen as it glares back,
daring me to perform,
daring me to begin,
One strike against a key
a sentence perhaps,..
… a paragraph
the cursor persists
from deep within the white canvas screen..
Which of us is truly empty, it implies..
You or I?
It is not the pain, but the hope, that hurts,
I insisted, thinking I was wise;
as he plucked two twinkling stars from the sky
and placed them in my eyes
My head upon his shoulder lain
he carried me to my resting hour;
climbing the tresses of Ferdowsi’s Rudāba*
he freed me from an imprisoning tower
‘We’ve seen each other’s scars‘, he said
our imperfections seem so perfect’
As I gaze into his fathomless eyes
my heart, in soothing undulation, swept
Carried away on an emerald ocean
within the cadence of my wanting,
‘the deeper you dive, the less violent the waves‘,
I immerse, the current no longer daunting
First buds break through winter’s frost
ushering the blessed re-birth of spring,
his kiss, a flame, melts the ice in my soul
re-awakening my heart to blossoming.
* Persian lore similar to the story of Rapunzel