Towards The Storm

It’s funny how your presence could leave so much impact on me.

It’s funny how your absence makes me look at you differently.

It’s funny how your presence blinds me and pushes me to impulse.

It’s funny how your absence enlightens my visions and opens my eyes on details I’ll only miss.

The details that I long for touching and embracing.

I’m cursed with this passion for little things that normal people rarely notice.

Lately, I’ve been obsessed with figures I overlooked before about you

And now, they haunt me like a ghost.

So I let myself immerse into the world of your features.

I like your teeth, i like how imperfectly perfect they look

I like your slightly disordered lower teeth, how they reflect you, oh how they expose you.

I like your upper lateral incisor that rebels on how arranged your upper teeth look and prefers to stand out a bit further in lane than others.

I like how it reflects you, oh how it exposes you.

I figured that even your teeth are telling me much about your personality.

I could feel your desire to stand out and be abnormal, to break the rules, to step out of the line, to scream loud “I am here and I’m not like you”

I could sense your voice tamed in your throat screaming for freedom from this fucked up society that is trying to tell us what to do, who we love and how we live.

I could see you. I could see you among the crowds, you only, as special as anything god could ever create.

I could see you, not as person, nor as a silhouette. But as a soul, I can see you. I can see through you.

And I get surprised whenever people walk past you, without noticing the beauty of your soul

I get surprised that even though your body features are a masterpiece, they still walk past you.

You should be appreciated, admired, for everything you represent.

Like the squeaky bones of your hands

Like your droopy eyes and wide pupils

Like your wavy dark hair, waiting for tender fingers to brush through it

Like the sound of your baby laughter, so contagious that it could threaten cancer

Like all of the above, and all of the left unspoken of, you should be appreciated.

It’s funny how details like these could kill me and keep me alive at the same time

It reminds me of a theory that hypothesizes that oxygen is a toxic gas, it makes you think it’s the reason for your living but is actually taking long time to kill you.

That’s exactly what’s going on with me, I’m suffocating on the intensity, the depth and grace of your details.

Yet, I find myself asking for more, searching for more and dying for more.

I keep diving deep, oblivious of the consequences

I keep going, unlocking your doors, solving your riddles and analyzing your habits

Habits that became unconsciously mine as well

Like twitching my eye whenever I feel mad

Using my hands while speaking, repeatedly

Pronouncing some words longer than usual when I forget what I was supposed to say or when I’m about to announce something

I never liked it when someone pronounces my name in a different and a certain way

But, I made exceptions, especially with you, the way you call me, feels like I was born to be called that way from the beginning

Habits that inhabit me and habits whom I inhabit.

You’re a journey, a hard, complicated, moody, mysterious journey.

Your roads are exhausting, intercepting in many knots.

You’re someone rare, like a natural phenomenon, that happens every 400 years.

You’re the reason why hurricanes are named after people.

You’re a folk song, so messy, so tender, so sweet, so bitter..

There are so many things about you that drive me crazy

The way you talk, all the gestures and grimaces you make while phrasing a sentence

The way you laugh, how your eyes close making your cute wrinkles pop out

The way you look at me, without explaining why, or what are you thinking of

The way you act, spontaneously and childishly sometimes

The way you hide yourself under layers of clothes, I like your layers, I always did.

The way you handle my shit, because I annoy you so much but you never complain

The way you never told me what you hate about me or what are my flaws, like I was some kind of goddess

The way you describe me, not like anyone has ever described me before

The way you exist, with all your perfections and imperfections

The way you hug me..

Your hugs should be studied as a subject: “the art of hugging”

Detailed and sectioned into chapters

Chapter1: The look: you smile wide, your eyes pin up, and an energy of warmth fills the air.

Chapter2: the smooch: you open your arms, you lean on and you drown your head between my neck and cheek, usually my right cheek, touching my skin with your soft lips, your hands finding their way through my spine, as if you’re trying to absorb my scent, as if you’re tasting how bitter my absence would be.

Chapter3: the prolonged hug: you push your head further into my skin, craving for more, you squeeze me a bit tighter to you, your breath against the back of my neck, your fingers pressing on my silhouette.

Chapter4: the fear: you fear me, you fear this feeling. You try to keep me close longer, to hold me more, assuring yourself that I’m still there. So you do. And it feels as if the heaven is embracing me.

Did I ever tell you why I write?

I write because you exist.

You are not an imagination of a 17-year-old girl who never felt this way before

You are not a fictive character that lives inside my head

You are not just someone with whom I want to be

You are beyond it, you are beyond all of the above

You are the kind of person that no matter how much I say and describe, words won’t give you justice

You are someone who can’t be confined in my shallow box of poems

You are a limitless sky of stars.

Will I ever expose your name and address you directly?

Definitely not.

Discover yourself between the lines, and tell me, is this you whomever I’m talking about?

Are you the one who looks like heaven but makes me feel like hell?

If not, you are probably wishing you were.

If yes, tell me then, what am I darlin’?

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I write sad stories about versions of people and myself that no longer exist.

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Ons Ben Jannet

Ons Ben Jannet

I write sad stories about versions of people and myself that no longer exist.

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