I am not one of those who write. I do not know how or what to write. My hands did not learn how to hold the pen correctly until now. Also, I do not speak well.
I write in a dim light. I can hardly see this sick paper, no one can read it or at least that’s what I think.
My head, full of those dreams, was thrown on a cold wall just beyond my grumbling soul.
I asked everyone to get away, I asked it not to talk to me until those wounds heal, which no one caused me. No one. But I.
My body began to fall like dominoes. You will not return to see me as you entrusted me.
When did all this begin? No! Let the question be, when it will end?
I’m fine, I’ll be as strong as I promised myself and promised you.
I will visit every place we visited together; perhaps your soul is coming. If anyone approaches and asks for my question about my situation, I will take your photo out of that close pocket to my heart, perhaps it will satisfy the monster of its curiosity.
Your image. Remember it? It was not an artist’s painting nor a professional image. I think the picture has faded from that eager pulse.
You know what? No, you will not remember it. Because it was never touchable. It was a picture of you in my imagination. Those lips that rise slightly to make their way laughing, the colour of honey in your eyes in broad daylight, the colour of glossy coffee in your eyes at night was not normal.
I will stand on that hill and proclaim your name in a voice that no one else hears, maybe in return, I do not receive a faint echo, but I receive your hand on my shoulder and your whispers in my ear.
You are closer than my neck to my body but you are far, far away.

Leen Mhanna