It’s daylight. The town slowly wakes up. Its spontaneous mechanics fall into place just like the tired but reliable gears of an old clock. The noise grows louder as fog makes way for all the carts and crates that are this coastal town’s bustling economy.
Shy sun rays find themselves spread across my face. I am not aware of the time but I still feel it’s bloody too early to wake up. I weave them into a humble scarf to ward off the morning’s chill. An exercise in futility.
Some seagulls have come to visit. I invite them to rest on my shoulders as I scatter to serve them breakfast. My body. I don’t want to interrupt my guests while eating but I can’t help it. I ask them about you and whether their tiny eyes have captured your beauty. They pay me no attention at all. Rude.
The boats make their way to the sea. A small sailboat catches my eyes as it dashes across the water. I am reminded of your grace. I would never compare you to a small boat but I am running out of words to describe how much I’ve missed you.
The smell of cumin and fish fills the air. It’s almost noon. The seagulls are still here but they have since moved to another spot. I must have bothered them with my questions. But I don’t blame them! They have never seen you.
I spend the day doing nothing in particular. Idle like the oil stains those boats left floating around. I am raging with emotions under the surface.
The sun dips her feet in the horizon as the last boat sails into the harbor. The seagulls are getting ready to leave. I wonder if they will return tomorrow?
Another friend of mine shows up. The faithful lighthouse. Right on time as always. He casually waves at me every now and then. I wonder if he is looking for you too?
The night drags on and the town goes to sleep. The boats huddle together like the seagulls on their masts. The lighthouse slowed his pace. The whole world is at peace except me, I am a restless port waiting for you to drop anchor.
About the Author:
Ali is a 32 years old Graphic Designer, currently based in Riyadh. When he’s not slaving away behind a screen for 8 hours a day he’s usually trying to cook up a dish, a story or a storm. You can find out about him here.
The Poetry Passport 