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Tala: [writing a letter to Leyla] Every night I empty my heart, but by morning it's full again. Slowly, droplets of you seep in through the night's soft caress. But don't I overflow with thoughts of us, an aching pressure that gives me no respite. Love cannot be contained; the neat packaging of desire splits asunder, spilling crimson through my days, long languishing days that are now bruised, tender with yearning, spent searching for a fingerprint, a scent, a breath you left behind.
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Tala: Come here. Dance with me.
Leyla: I can't. I have absolutely no sense of rhythm.
Dan Balcaban
Extended Reading
