Fajr, or “when will dawn arrive?”
“Why be infatuated with him?”
“He’s proud, he’s pretentious — the world’s not the right fucking place, now that he’s turned his eye upon it.”
He’s the man I’d die for in one instant, and kill the other.”
I would own you. Each stubborn hair on your head — your chest. The shy ones on the inside of your thighs.
I’d own how you look,
the way your chin stands up against the world,
the way your spine props straight up,
and how your body conquers the space about it.