Traitor by Bader A. Shehab

Remember back in Rabat?
When the wind blew against our cheeks,
with it sticks to your derm the sea salt, on the edges of your nostrills: the fresh bakery, the durum wheat stew, and the remedies of their hands. 

Do you remember before I left the city? The promises we made,
from the cradle to the grave,
you know how we would not desert one another and whatnot,
it was all that repetitive cliché and hopeless romances,
which we episodically performed on every Tuesday night while the retired blues band played their sorrowing sway away into the haze. We danced and I held your hips, from ballroom to ballroom, wasn’t that fun back then?

Do you recall and find it in your heart the first night I got on stage for you? The Parisian one-man theater, I mastered and learned, just for you. All I wanted was to see your smile under the moonlit starry nights, amongst the many faces in the candlelights. Then I got in the fighting ring for you and lost touch with my senses when I bled and sweat for you, you chanted my name in the echoes of the stadium, amongst the crowd you were all I could see and hear.

Do you remember when I carried you across the Andalusia park to the car when it rained heavily so that you don’t ruin your Tom Fords? Do you remember when I held your long and slender body along the flat board as you swallowed salt water on tiny baby waves trying to learn how to surf? That was fun, wasn’t it?

Do you remember when I watched you walk across the ocean lines, the winds playing on your summer dress, the sea weed sticking on your ankle lace, and the sand under the edges of your nail polish. Do you remember? That Spanish song that goes “Baila, Baila Mi” and we promised we’ll keep it as our song and we’ll play it for our children one day, how does one move on and simply forget all about that? The sounds that I hear as I ask myself such questions are nothing but fainted heartbeats and cringing doors closing. Good bye to my yesteryears, please do write me back, pick the pen up sometime.

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