Yaman Nimer

Edition XXX

These Last Words - by Yaman Nimer (Photo by Yara aka Peroculus)Photo credit: Peroculus

These Last Words

By Yaman Nimer

You were always one to see me for what I really am;
the restless wind that morphed into a storm and tore through the land it called home,
the running river blinded by greed it poured itself out into the black emptiness,
the moon that drowned in a lunar eclipse the whole world watched and did nothing to save it.
You always knew exactly what I was –
a misguided,
ill-fated,
attempt at
becoming.


Edition XXXI

Sink - by Yaman Nimer  (Photo by Malda Smadi).jpgPhoto credit: Malda Smadi

Sink

By Yaman Nimer

“You ever wonder how deep
you can sink
into
nothing at all..?”

I’m really too young to feel this way,
and it always comes from a pitch-black place, blindsiding me

often times just to wake me up from a state of utter unconsciousness,
like the sound of the subway train after a long steamy day of taking shit from everyone

(well.. I should at least be honest with myself, it’s mostly just my own head)

and you just happen to fall asleep standing up, waiting for the train to come,
and then..

the screeching starts

and you’re woken up, not
to the present,

but to the past.

in just one single heartbeat —

all the love and the memories, and the tears and the blackouts,
all the kissing and the fucking, the pushing and the shoving,

all the stupefying gazes into each others’ eyes

under the frugal shelter of the tree
in the park where
no matter how dark it got
there was always that calming, guiding glimmer there.

All that comes flooding in. All that’s gone.

I flip through my music player and find the song I’ve had on repeat, and I hit play:

“You ever wonder how deep
you can sink
into
nothing at all..?”

Yes, yes I have.


Edition XXXII

What You Aren't - By Yaman Nimer  (Photo by Mohamed Nohassi).jpgPhoto credit: Mohamed Nohassi

What You Aren’t

By Yaman Nimer

You are not the embedded roots,
why every time the winds blew strong I had to search for you on the other side of the pond.
You are not my day and night,
after so many years and I still can’t figure out when the fuck it is that you’d come and go.
You are not the sun kissing my skin,
my skin is pale and I reek of the smell of lighter fluid and scorched senses from every time you erupt.
You are not the light touch that I miss,
all I feel is the weight of the rubble you’ve buried me under.
You are not my home,
cause home is where the heart is and it seems you’ve done away with mine and let yours turn black.


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