CRUSHED

Your black hair falls over the beginning and end of the weekend,

Softening it, shaping it,

Providing the frame for the tears,

That slide quietly between my skin and my skull,

Not disturbing anyone outside, only me, privately,

Within, your face etched with kohl, eyelashes and brownish-blue lips,

Reminds me that I am not happy,

With your face so far away behind me,

I am not happy,

I can only smile facing you and near your framing lips,

Giggling incantations in Arabic and French,

To collapse my lungs,

Under the massive weight of your surrounding depths.