The Arab Boy.

Black pants

black shirt,

some say he's got a dark soul,

but all I saw was

the adolescent eyes,

filled with curiosity, attraction,

pinch of fear

and burning impulse

to cross the forbidden bridge

/

He takes the first step,

approaching slowly, casually,

our eyes meet,

a boost of confidence at least.

/

He wears no mask,

revealing the widest smile,

I answer back with joyful eyes,

squinting like a relaxing cat.

/

Distance meter,

maybe less,

the way he laughs

as he stops his runway show,

hinting at the large quantities

of not so fine

alcoholic beverages,

untying the insides.

/

He is surprised and not,

that I figured it so fast,

telling me to ask all the questions that I have,

the mind starts working overtime,

two steps ahead and nineteen back,

then back again.

/

He gave up,

now doesn't hide his intoxication,

starts telling me about his piety before,

five times a day, a gift for Allah,

but got betrayed, his sister left in shambles,

while classmates laughed at him.

/

He then lifts up his shirt,

brown stab wound,

like ink spillage on the painting,

a hideous, unnatural, and foreign

a defect on the sculpture.

/

Unconvincing story.

I read between the lines

and understand, that he is also

an aficionado of the male form,

the shame of family, a walking curse.

/

Then out of nowhere

he hugs me

with a hug reserved for lovers, brothers, and best friends.

/

I see judging eyes passing by,

I ignore the stare

and return the warmness stocked.

Close to my ear,

he whispers,

I wish you the highest

biggest and the best Jannah.

/

Just two people,

no politics, talking life

breathing rain,

speaking in the language of the unknown.