When Love Appeared
That night,
love arrived—
not with thunder,
but with your fingernails
drumming my kitchen table,
drumming like a child
counting down to Christmas.
You said my name wrong—
*Said* instead of *Saeed*—
and the way you stumbled,
stammered with your hands,
that tiny tremor
in your certainty
undid me completely.
I had built my life
to avoid exactly this:
the way you bit your lip
when thinking,
the scar above your left eyebrow
you touched when lying.
*I'm not staying long*, you said.
*I have a train to catch.*
But your coat clung to my chair—
as if it had always lived there—
and you drank your coffee
black and burning,
like someone running
from some nameless thing
they cannot catch.
Three hours we spent
speaking of nothing—
weather, work,
safe words
that couldn't cut,
couldn't touch
the trembling truth between us.
Until you laughed—
sharp, sudden,
a match struck in darkness—
and I saw it:
the hunger in your eyes,
the way you held yourself
like a violin string
strung too tight,
ready to snap
or sing.
*I can't do this*, you whispered,
your voice cracking like ice.
*I'm not built for breaking.*
But you stayed.
Hands shaking
around an empty cup,
choosing me
over every reason
you shouldn't,
over every train
that could carry you
to safety.
The train left without you.
We never spoke of it.
Yet sometimes,
when morning light
catches dust motes
spinning, spinning
in our bedroom air,
I hear that whistle
fading into forever,
carrying away
the life you almost lived—
and your fingernails,
still drumming,
softly drumming
on my kitchen table,
keeping time
with my heartbeat.
Copyright ©
Saeed Koushan
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