Always Losing
In a café’s hush, two lovers as pawns,
at dawn’s closed gate before it dawns.
They clutch a paper, creased and thin,
their vows on trial for breathing sin.
The soldiers come with boots of dust,
their eyes demand, “Obey or trust?”
A ring means little, papers less,
they weigh our love in bitterness.
Her scarf is blue; she pins it tight,
a hidden bruise beneath the white.
They stitched the cloth into her skin,
to seal the quiet locked within.
We play this game, move piece by piece,
each breath a claim on borrowed peace.
The board is cold, the watchers near,
each step is marked by quiet fear.
In chess, defeat can end the fight,
a bow, a shake, a step from sight.
But here, the losing leaves its stain,
checkmate becomes a whispered pain.
A pawn moves forward, small and slow,
past whispered threats where shadows grow.
They watch each move, each stolen breath,
we play this game against our death.
Yet in the hush of wood on wood,
the pieces speak of what they could:
“We are not pawns to break and fall,
we are the breath that outlives walls.”
The board may crack, the night may close,
yet hope’s small flame beneath us glows—
one step, one square, one vow to free
the love we guard, the dream we see.
Copyright ©
Saeed Koushan
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