when the apricots bloomed

By Manahil (@onestrawbebbypls)

In another universe where the seas run green and the skies forever blush,        would you like it if we made blasphemy for breakfast?         for as long as forever and whatever comes when forever fades,                                 would it be okay if lay down besides you, my chin resting on your chest,                      my hands straying,          wanderers on an island with grains of sand that call my name;              would you make me the gift of letting you be known             I’d listen as you tell me what you dreamt of when you were eight,                         and how your baba called you ballu         now written on you in permanent ink;                                tell me and I’d listen of the first time you learnt what love meant and the first time you learnt what it didn’t.

But in this universe                                             where we’re only allowed to daydream                            about 1+1 making 5          I’d tell you over the phone how there’s a phrase                   in Arabic                    ‘bukra fil mish mish’           tomorrow when the apricots bloom,                      a phrase used for something beautiful never bound to happen;      I’d tell you how the Syrians used it ever so often                            never understanding what it meant, having valleys flooded with apricot trees,         scenting Syria all summer            until the winter of 2014 when war planes were pasted onto their skies      treacherous    glow in the dark stars to a ceiling                                and the valleys were burnt to ash                                          that summer all of a sudden the phrase began to make so much sense.

So in this universe where             I see you and all I see are pink skies            I tell you you’re everything             and you say softly            ‘to you, in another universe I hope’               as these words ebb and flow      loosing themselves in the river of our conversation               I’m unable to tell you what they mean to me                                                but that’s okay                                                         because in another universe                             where the seas run green                             you kiss my fingertips,           vanilla scented,              our two bedroom in Kensington smelling of summer                                                  as the pot of fresh apricot jam I made               simmers on the stove.                                                                                                                                                     

                                                 - manahil         

Based in Lahore, Pakistan she's always found writing the means to translate her thoughts; with love being a recurring theme. She sifts through the emotions and turmoils that come with choosing love in a society where religion and duty are forefront