Scheherazade

You are unattainable again, tonight. 

Like you were sometime ago. 

When I would read your poetry

over and over. 

Try to look for you in your words. 

Deciphering your codes, your secrets. 

Pretending that everything you wrote

was a riddle for me. 

You wrote about your men and your city. 

Your life and your death. 

Your realm. 

And the silent futility of it all in which

you strangely seemed to revel in. 

I didn't even remember how you looked like back then. 

Just your hair. 

And your hands, your tiny little hands

as they sifted through the sand.

Soft delicate fingers caressing with care. 

And then you wrote for me. 

Scribbled verses about me on a tissue, 

using my back as a support, 

with the pencil you stole from me, remember? 

And I was so jealous of your words. 

For they came to you like old friends. 

My words fooled me.

My words gave up. 

You loved me like you were born to love me. 

I just gave you a thousand and one nights worth of stories. 

You were supposed to be my muse. 

That was the arrangement. 

But you, with your mysterious ways, took me in.

And I became yours.