(I wrote this last month, but dear Asser reminded me of it just now, so…)
Egypt. I love everything about her. I have in my mind’s eye a catalogue of everything she delights me with, and linger on it when I am far from home.
I love her eyes, rimmed with kohl and sparkling with mischief, even if the world is falling down around her, which it usually is. I love her gaze, which cements her love for me despite the fact that I must sometimes leave her. I love her eyes and the things she shows me through them, dozens of shapes and 10 times as many skin tones, swirling together with the blue-green sea, the cloudless skies, the buttercup stones stacked atop one another, pointing at the heavens.
I am in love with the scent of the sea, intermingled with jasmine, sheesha, and a noxious pollution that will probably kill me. But what care I of death when there is such a perfume to be had?
I love her voice, and all of the different sounds she makes; the tabla, the tambourine, the calax..
I am seduced on all sides, feeling the myriad voices—a wall of them joined, striking me palpably—chanting “Kyrie Elieson” from the right, and the sinuous slide of the Azan on the left. They grip me with invisible fingers, wrap about me with tentacles unseen.
Most of all, though, I love how I feel when I am with her. It’s not just the sounds or the sights or even just the hustle and bustle of things… it’s everything, mingled, mixed, amalgamated.
It’s the fact that I feel these things on my lips, behind my eyes, and in my very lungs, when I am away from home. It only eases the ache a little, though, for memories do plague a person, prey on their minds whilst far from their dearest, as I am to my beloved.
When I am apart from her, I am bereft, lost to myself, separated from myself..