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After the Last Word
When I set out to write a love poem,
I imagine you as the crack before thunder
finds its voice, your breath
breaking the laws of gravity between us.
You are no angel—
but something that makes clocks forget
their purpose, your pulse
humming morse code beneath my skin.
The coffee cup you leave steaming near the sink
outlasts your absence by exactly seven minutes.
I count them. Each one
spills warmth across the ordinary morning.
Your eyes—what do they hold?
Storm systems, yes. Tidal equations, yes.
But also the way morning light
hesitates before touching the floor.
I do not write upon your body.
Your body rewrites the periodic table,
each scar a new element
burning softly on your skin.
My lips memorize this map of you,
tracing blueprints in warmth only I can read,
each curve a secret language
written in warmth and time.
When you laugh,
the room forgets its corners,
light bends, and I see
why maps once ended with dragons.
You are not a poem—
you are the silence after lightning,
when the world holds its breath,
waiting to be named again,
your name humming beneath mine,
waiting for the next word
that changes everything.
Copyright ©
Saeed Koushan
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