Elia Daaboul

Edition XVI

Beauty - Elia Daaboul (Photo by Elia Daaboul).jpgPhoto credit: Elia Daaboul


By Elia Daaboul

Sitting in the same place again.
The same walls with the same broken patterns you
once said you loved,
listening to the same white background noise while writing the
same line again; I’ve always been afraid of beauty.
Wanting to taste your lips on every breath of smoke I make,
every glass of gin I take,
getting high on every word you say
until your smile turns into a symphony of angels
begging me to fall for you,
to lie for you,
to worship the touch of your skin.

But to be able to love you I must first die.

To be able to love beauty I need to feel the pain lingering inside those cuts on your wrist,
I need to kiss the tears running down your neck,
I need to hear the sad love stories and forgotten nights hidden in your lipstick shade.
I need to spend sleepless nights staring at the ceiling from my bed,
with lighter fluid running through my head, and
sleeping pills in hand,
remembering the way beauty sat,
the way she left,
the way her hair felt;

I’ve always been afraid of beauty,
Always have been scared of the way she dances,
the way she moves her body to the rhythm of every heartbeat she hears,
every heartbreak she heels,
the way she laughs with such freedom,
the same freedom that drunk poets lust over
while imagining what it would feel like to fall in love with beauty,
to drown between her hips.

But still,
every time I look at you I realize that I’m too weak to resist beauty,
too intrigued to let her go.
So I’ll just light my cigarette and close my eyes,
slowly lay my head down on your thigh,
hold your cold hands against my chest to make my whispers shiver and say:
‘for beauty my mind bled,
my spine broke
and the body aches; but beauty lays with

Edition VI

Coffee Shop - by Elia Daaboul (Photo by Sydney Sims)Photo credit: Sydney Sims

Coffee Shop

By Elia Daaboul

As he sips on his ice cold coffee
swallowing her poison
as bitter as the memory he kept away from his pen,
he remembers how she sat in front of him.
Her eyes spoke of happiness,
her lips of love.
Her hands trying to find their way to his face
while he kept talking about how beautiful her hair was.
She kisses him.
The same way she kisses her cigarette,
the same way her soul kisses life, she kissed him.

Reflecting on this memory,
fading deeper in his irony,
he cries.
He can write again
but it hurts.
He can love again
but it burns.

Second cup of coffee,
the place feels empty.
Only torn pictures and distant laughs
with his words on the paper and smoke in his mouth
trying to decide, should he continue the story or end it like every time
with his muse dead and a pencil through his head.

He can’t.
He can’t kill her because killing her is like making love to a sad song.
Climaxing with every note until you reach the last chorus
knowing that the song will be written again, but never with the same pen.

So he keeps on writing,
not about how her eyes brighten up like night stars after a rainy day,
nor how symphonies blossom in his ears with every smile she makes.
He writes about how empty the place feels without her.
How his coffee, made the same way, doesn’t taste like it used to.
His tears an ode to what could’ve been a love poem
sacrificed for a lie never spoken
for a moment that was broken while watching her walk away
leaving the car door open.

Over a cup of coffee the story ended
with brick walls screaming silently
and chairs standing vacantly.
A floor full of unwritten thoughts
torn papers engraved in thorns
reminding him of the day when she sat in front of him
sipping on an ice cold coffee.

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