Ripe Fruit Bruise Easy

Ocean Vuong writes of how
in the Vietnamese language
the word for missing someone
& remembering them is the same.

In Arabic, a man leaving & gold
can be homophones.

The same letter can be soft or firm.

S can be soft and tender.
S can be profound,
radiating from your throat’s throb.

Ladder can also mean peace.
Love can also mean air.
A poetry verse can also be home.

Yes, I admit, I have pictured how our end could come.
In an airport,
beside one another, not wanting to go without our fruit.

The sky will break open,
sun bruised,
in pinks.

Pastels, my favorite instance of sun.

Saying goodbye while holding our breath. Who can say
if it will happen, but we both shared grapes.
Oblivious of which were sweet and which were sour.

Sharing towards such an unconceivable softness, you are overripe with heart, & a future we will not share.

My epistemic companion, who knows as well as I do that this is
an end & maybe not the end, so I wonder how a ladder can help me reach peace, & how to love without
sharing the same air.

Whether we stay or go, this was gold.

How much fruit we have gathered together, to perish or to bloom, thank you.

Bio: Kim Roger Abi Zeid Daou is a storyteller, artist, and Ph.D. candidate at McGill University. At the heart of her stories is an exploration of perceptual biases, neuroscience, and the dynamic and poetic ways in which we make meaning. Her current favorite album is Teen Dream - Beach House. For more information, please visit her website www.beirutarchivist.wordpress.com