The way I love you;
by Aqeela Naqvi
A thousand years have passed, but your love still remains. The beauty being that, to each who loves you, you are something different. Each lover claims you proudly as their own. Each speaks your name with a different tenderness. Each cherishes your touch with a different gaze. Each whispers, ya Aba Abdillah, in a different, heart rending voice.
A million loves and yet you ask one as unworthy as me – in what way do I love you?
. . . O beat of my heart, in what way do I not love you? When every clap of thunder, is the striking of hooves of your horse as you ride away from me forever. When every calm before the storm, is the moment you turn back in farewell, your eyes catching me in my dreams. When every whistling breeze, is this exhale – begging you to let me take your place. When every whipping branch, is an arrow striking you against a blackening sky. When every drop of rain, is the burn of a tear as I watch your silhouette begin to fall to its knees.
In what way do I not love you? When you are the storm against my skin, swallowing me, engulfing me, until I am drowning in waters sweet – through death finding beautiful rebirth – laying my head against riverbanks, softly humming your name.
In what way do I not love you? When you are the grief that tears me into a thousand pieces until I am nothing but petals swirling in the wind… When you are also the healing that gathers me in the breeze, weaving my shorn heart strings into a rose’s glimmer.
(In what way do I love you?)
(In that infinite, unspeakable, beautifully silent way —
a lightning strike in a purpling sky; a blossom in a sweet summer storm.)