Remembering Khaled

Lamplight, quietness and flipping pages
naked,
sand
still clinging to our bodies
Khaled picks his way
through
this well worn journal.

and finds himself strangely absent .

troubled,
in not finding himself there,
that he is somehow less
real,
less
important,
less
memorable,

on this hajj through this strange land.

but for me he is everywhere,
as present as the bright blue of the sky over the atlas mountains
or the indigo scarf he so painstakingly
wraps
himself in.

and so for me,
scribbling
in this book seems so unnecessary.

but he doesn’t know that he is my first thought
opening
my eyes
and my last conscious one before
going
to sleep.

he is there in the smell of warm bread and lamb
coming
through opened doors
in the medina

he is there in the souk
ever watchful
protective and thoughtful
discretely following, and a bit surprised
that a small westerner, not even in galabiyya
can find her way home without his help.

he is there barefoot
in the house of new friends
smiling
as he waits for the tea to be poured.

his kisses too
linger,
like the sounds of a Milhûn
played out with handqa and kamenjah
sometimes
on my neck
and sometimes
just along my fingertips.

i wish he would see himself through my eyes
if
only for this moment.

maybe then he would feel himself as timelessly
as i do
and
as life’s moments are meant to be.

for while memories of kasbahs and mountain villages can fade
with time,
becoming less clear,
our particular love
is woven with a different silk

not a mirage,
fading
in the desert heat.

it was real,
even if only for that moment
when it thirsted.

for understanding.