Archive for June, 2012

Milestone: Moving to blog.nouralali.com

If anyone told me that by 2012, not only would I use my real name in online interactions but write in a blog with my real identity, I would have laughed.

Moving blogs isn’t much of a big deal to everyone, but I tend to use my drama queen points whenever I could.

So anyway, I will be writing in a new blog. I have new interests and subdomains aren’t enough for me anymore.

I even filled out the about me section. Be sure to check it out and subscribe there!

Last post at thearabzy.wordpress.com. It’s been good 🙂

Short Story: A Full Moon, Cigarette Scents And Tensioned Love

Listen to: Ólafur Arnalds – Fok

You grab my hand gently, point with my finger to the moon and say, “look.” I look, not at the moon but at you; startled. Your eyes, they sparkle for me. They’re too magical for a full moon to beat.

“You can hide the moon with your finger,” you tell me. “But it’s always there.”

You lean closer to kiss me, but I can’t let you. I stop you. “No,” I say. I look towards the moon and it is nowhere to be found.

“Look,” I took your hand and point at an empty sky. “It’s not always there.” Just like you, in a way. You leave and come, come and go, expecting me to always wait for you to shine at night. You’re as temporary as a full moon, but even then, it’s beautiful in a way — the pain you make me feel. Every time you come, leave, come, then leave again and in every instance of you leaving, I hope of your never return.

You lean closer till I can feel your breath on my skin. I look away, in search of a missing full moon. You place your hand on my cheek and turn my face towards you, gently like you always do.

“Do you feel that?” you whisper and the hair at the back of my head stands up.

“Yes,” I quiver.

“Love,” you say.

“Tension,” I counter.

“Love,” you insist.

“Tension,” I repeat.

“Tensioned love,” you waiver.

I do not bulge, “Tension.”

I take a step back, and you let me. You don’t pull me back like you gently would. “You’re right,” you utter, fixing your shirt while in search of a missing full moon. “It’s not always there.”

“Just like you,” I tell you.

You wonder why I could never love you.
I leave with the smell of your cigarettes mixed with my perfume embedded in my shirt. I can’t wash it, it’s all I have left of that night we could’ve never been. I can never wear it again, it’s all I have left of a night I never want to live again.

Sometimes I miss not you, but the thought of being cared for by you, others I stare helplessly at a moonless sky. It comforts me, because just like me, its moon has gone missing.

I call you in the middle of a hot summer night. “Is the moon shining where you are?” I ask in a faint voice. “Are you crazy?” you say with your sleepy tone. “Yes,” I admit. “I am crazy.”  “Go to sleep,” you tell me. “The moon is too big for both of us to care for.”

But I don’t love you. I couldn’t love you then, and I won’t love you now.

“Out of all that is symbolic, you chose the moon, and I hate you for it,” I cry out.  “That’s good,” you say and I hear a lighter in the background. “At least you feel something towards me.”

“Are you smoking?” I ask, trying to change the subject like I always do. “Don’t worry,” you gently laugh. “Scents don’t travel through phones yet.”

I do not reply, nor do I hang up. “Remember that shirt you wore that night?” you ask, trying to break my silence. “Which night?” I ask in oblivion.

“The night you said the sky is beautiful,” you point out with your trembling voice.  “I do,” I flinch at the sight of it hanging, untouched, in my closet.  “I saw a girl wearing the exact top the other day and I remembered you,” you let out a sigh, “If I could ever forget you, that is.” “I need to go now,” I interrupt you. “Let’s never talk again.”

I close the phone, run to my closet, grab my shirt and wash it.