Eddy Aziz

Edition XVII

I Can See the Sun Go to Sleep from my Bedroom Window - by Eddy Aziz (Photo by Ameen Fahmy).jpgPhoto credit: Ameen Fahmy

I Can See the Sun Go to Sleep from my Bedroom Window

By Eddy Aziz

I wonder
if anyone ever asks the sun
if she really wants to leave.

I wonder if
when she takes her daily dive into the sea,
someone looks at her from their bedroom window, like I do,
and asks her to stay just a little longer.

I bet
most of us have watched the sunset
one evening after the other
that it got to the point where
sunset is just another 6 p.m. I bet

most of us have never reached out
and tried to get a handful of sunlight
and tried to hold it close and be afraid of opening their hand
                                                                                                                                     just in case it escapes.

I bet no one has ever
tried breathing in the evening scent,
the one that smells like sea breeze.

I wonder
if I even dare
to ask the night to just wait a little longer by the door. “It’s fine,” I’d say,
“I’ve waited a lot,
you can do it,
just this one time,
for me.
Please.”

I wonder
if anyone ever tried closing their eyes as the sun sets
and imagining the world pass by
day in,
day out,
night in,
night out,
heartbreak in,
hangover out.

I wonder
if anyone just sipped their coffee waiting for the sun to set—
not their Nescafe,
their actual Lebanese black coffee,
the one they started drinking after their last heartbreak.

I wonder if the sun ever looked at the sky and said,
“Can we stay a little longer?
There is still so much to do.”

I wonder if my lovers ever looked at me
and thought the same thing.


Edition XVI

I Promised that it was the Last Time I Call Your Name - by Eddy Aziz (Photo by Jaroslav Devia).jpgPhoto credit: Jaroslav Devia

I Promised that it was the Last Time I Call Your Name

By Eddy Aziz

Your name
is like a punch in the throat.
One hard enough to kill my voice,
but my voice is not that easily killed.

My voice will call your name loud enough
You’d see the middle finger it’s raising.

My voice will say your name
and spit your blood after it.
The same blood you used to tattoo your name on my lips.
The same blood I will always taste when I kiss someone else.

My voice will whisper your name.
and follow it with a slow hot breath—
a breath of relief,
a breath that is willing to put a dying man out of his misery,
a breath that would calm a loud crying baby and an even louder silent mother down

My voice will say your name,
and it will never speak of it ever again,                        but

my voice will also call you at night
to tell you to come over,
to tell you I’m sorry,
to tell you that I’ve been lonely,
to tell you that
the whiskey in the freezer is not cold enough.

My voice will call your name and say not again at the same time.
My voice is sad.
Your name is sad.
My voice saying your name is sad.
My voice is breaking.
My neck is sore.
My eyes can barely open.
My fingers have never felt this stiff.
My knees can no longer handle holding the weight of both our voices.
My knees can no longer handle carrying the weight of your heart
fighting with mine

My heart fighting with my brain.
My brain fighting with my mouth.
My mouth fighting with my voice.
My voice fighting with your name.
Your name
fighting with every breath I take,
every decision I make,
every collision I fall into,
every heartbreak that ends up with my bed
full of sweat,
and my heart full of naked bodies, like cigarette butts
residing in the bottom of the ashtray,
finishing up the harming work they’ve done.

My voice
is like second-hand smoke.
You will feel it
entering your body,
leaving beautiful damage to your insides
even when you don’t ask for it.


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