of Sama

March 25, 2009

This is not a love book.

It is not a present for Sama.

It is not a love poem that will keep me forever in her heart.

This is not a love book.

Or at least I do not intend it to be.

Sama does not deserve a love book.

Sama hurt me, she hurt me so bad.

So this is not a love book.

It could be a love song..

A song I wrote a long time ago.

Before I met Sama, before I wished for her existence.

Sama, my sky, my star, my beautiful moon.. Should this be a love song for you?

Or should it simply be a diary of my heartaches? Of me being a woman, and you being a woman.. Of me being away.. And you being even further away..?

If this is not a love song, then what is it?

What should I make this, what kind of present will be fit for you Sama?

I could think of no reason to write you this book.

I could write it about your eyes, about your lips, their softness, their puffiness, and the wonders they created on my mouth and body.. But what for?

I could write it about your skin, your eyelashes, your beautiful long black hair, but what for?

For you? But I am in too much pain to write you a book, Sama. Or a love song. Or anything that has to do with love.

So I have finally decided, that this is not a love book. Not a love poem. Not a love song.

Anyone who calls it any of these things has me to answer to.

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