March 9, 2012
Tahajjud
I heard his voice at night and it came into my chest and cradled my heart. Beating in the couch of this voice, my poor little heart unfurled its bloody tendrils exposing the throbbing ache it had masterfully splinted, sutured and put into a cast. It lay spread eagle in exhaustion, feeling his voice rise up underneath it supporting every heaviness it had come to bear. In the tender spring of the voice that bathed it, my heart welcomed the stings and starts that opens a wound to cleaning. The pain was palpable and comforting still. Each word was heavy love’s caress. It dug into my knotted heart with the deft fingers and knuckles of a blind masseuse, soothing where it inflicted pain. I lay loose and unraveled having succumbed to its complete embrace.
I began to cry, moved as I was, hollow as I felt now that I knew what I wanted to fill me. His voice was crying too. We cried in our reunion and cried because near as his voice was burrowed in my chest it wasn’t near enough. I was keenly aware of how the bones and sinews that kept me whole and strong were a cage that kept me apart from him. What good was strength if it was only a dam fortified against the waves that I so wished would engulf me?
I heard his voice at night and it came into my chest and cradled my heart.
February 23, 2012
Calligraphy Project
February 22, 2012
Muhammad’s Buraq
