nejma

by Nayyirah Waheed

the way a poem bleaches everything the color of itself. this is the way people stain.

islam. is still in my life. we are old soulmates. who could not work out the knots against skin. who could not believe in each other. while believing in ourselves. who could not make each other happy. without. making each other a sadness. who were born to each other. and never fell in love. but we still sip tea. share our hands. touch hearts. every now and then.

i have not written in months. my fingers are molt. you are with a writer who is not writing. last night you said ‘love, let me read to you’ i was laying on my stomach as you began translating the book of the fixed stars. by abd al-rahman al-sufi. the persian. sufi. astronomer. you said ‘he handwrote this around 964. a book of the sky. with his hands.’ we arrive at the page where al-sufi speaks of a little cloud laying at the mouth of a big fish. (‘this was later named the andromeda galaxy’ you say) and as you read i am transforming into that thing. i can feel it. i am writing. my stomach is writing. my back is writing. the water behind my right eye is writing. i gather your hands to my lips. i am grateful for you. for the kind of love that will read me the (loosely translated) starworks of incredible sufi astronomers on warm tuesday evenings. (the kind of love that loves a writer when they cannot write.) i am writing my way back to you. you were born august 39th. i was born on the 54th of april. we are something. born. in and out of time. i believe that everyone in the world. has one poem. that is their soulmate. i was made from sex. there is no shame. in such a creation.