The pull of A.H.H. 7ub

I see him, standing in the distance. His hand is stretched toward me, teasing me to come closer.

I stand and stare. My body is still but my brain is in chaos. I do not know where to go or who to be.

I am not here. I can not be there. I am floating in between these poles, in a buoyant atmosphere that is free from the limitations of gravity but is full of stress.

La ana 3arif arta7, w ana tayi' sawa7.

Why am I subjected to this juggling?

Ana bas'al lay, wa7tar kida lay? Bokra il ayam 7at wareenee.

I fight the air to swim back to my comfort zone, but he calls to me again. His pull grows stronger with each pulse of his larynx, and I am simultaneously softened. My stroking arms wilt. The air cradles me and holds me still.

I am turned. I face him. Nawarlee, wareenee sikit il 7abayib.

He nods, cups the sides of his mouth, and thrusts his breath at me. It paves over the particles that float between us. It overcomes me and draws me in. I feel my stubbornness melt into complacence. My stare has even weakened but I see him more clearly.

He is in black and white; he lusters and I am forced to squint. His eyes glimmer with every emotion that can be sensed; his cheeks are flushed with every aura that exists beyond me, fl ghuyoob. His outline is sharp, and timbre breaks his reflection into background and fore, low pitch and high, gloom and glee.

Ya rameenee b sa7r 3enayk il tneyn, mat 'oulee wakhidnee w rayi7 fayn? 3ala gar7 igdeed, wila al tanheed, wila 3al far7 mwadeenee?

I hope for the latter, but I can't know for sure. He provides no answers. All I hear are whistles, enticing me to a place that existed before I was a hiss.

He reaches his hand out to me again, and offers a vocal fold that lulls me closer. He knows my heart mouths what he sounds.

El 'alb, whoo 'alee.

In unison.

Il 'alb il khalee zalamoo.

His reverberations, leashes of whispered lace and tatreez, have pulled me in the final centi.

I arrive at his place in time. The universe has silenced and stilled herself for us.

And I stare at him. He looks at me.

His microphone appears. He places it on the sheath that shelters my heart, and says "Ghanee."

In sullen voice, the four chambers sound, "Ana, min zaman mishtaq a shoof 7abibi, ilee ghayib."

I press the microphone closer to my chest, and a question is heard: "Fayn kont ghayib?"

Then, I hold it up to my lips, and say, "Ma ykhas. Bayant w shoftak w smi3tak w radayt 3alayk w ghanaytlak."

He stares at me. And I look at him.

The microphone dissolves into particles that float between us, 3azab and 7ub suspended in hawa.

And there we remain, heart-to-heart in silence.

Until, I press PLAY.