cuban beaches
Picture by Remy Gieling
I dream of me sitting next to him on a beach in Cuba,
close enough to the water for the sea to lightly kiss our feet and pull back,
witness to this fragile, grains of sand love
on nights where I waste hours in bed with eyes wide open
I can only find sleep in the sound of his voice from old voice notes,
a lullaby bringing me both peace and pain
bringing me back to a beach in Cuba, sitting next to him,
with my head resting on his shoulder he asks me to recite a poem
I am a fucking mediocre poet, I am no Nayyirah Waheed, no Warsan Shire,
I just throw words unto paper & hope I’ll survive
but in the small seconds of him asking
he makes me feel my words are worthy of some pulitzer prize.
And I can almost feel this beach in Cuba, where I have never been,
the scorching sun on our skin returning to me my true colours,
our half-naked bodies carefully fitting into each other.
and so I finally fall asleep, dreading to wake up
and leaving him there on his beach
and longing to go back
always longing to go back
always longing for Cuban beaches
but never quite able to return home again.