Delicate - a poem by lynn cheik moussa

I wonder what it would be like to love you. 

"I'm not the type, 

I don't do casual, 

It's all or nothing for me." 

It seems I've criticised myself and gotten myself into exactly that: 

a casual love, 

if we can ever call it "love", 

because I'm not sure we can, 

without the implications of rushing too fast or labelling too soon. 

I used to believe that casual relationships do not entail any form of vulnerability 

or openness. 

It was to remain purely physical, 

incredibly enjoyable, 

friendly at times, 

but strictly lustful at most. 

So why then have we let ourselves get to a point 

where I felt comfortable enough to cry 

on your shoulder,  

as we talk about lonesome childhoods and the crushing weight of raising yourself and learning self-love? 

Why have we reached a point where you ask me to open up,  

and  

instead of retreating further within,  

I choose to try and talk to you? 

After you've slowed down my quickening breaths, 

stopped my legs from shaking, 

and held my face between your hands, 

telling me you're so proud of me for managing to calm down on my own 

(Although we both know I couldn’t have done it without you), 

I will hug you, 

kiss your shoulder, 

thank you  

for extending this kindness towards me that should be expected of everyone but  

is delivered by no one, 

and wonder what it would be like  

to love you  

the way I have done with others before you. 

No one love is the same, 

this I know, 

but what would it be like to label you, 

categorise you, 

bring you home to my parents 

and take you out on dates? 

I wonder, 

would you holding me as we sleep feel any different? 

how would we know this is love?  

How would we recognise it? 

Must it come to us instantly; an emotional epiphany that strikes us as we're laying down, 

bodies entangled and breaths heavy, 

realisation sweeping over us as we look over to each other 

and know? 

Or can it be slow-burning; 

brooding but there all the same, 

flickering slowly and waiting for one of us 

to make a move, a statement, a declaration? 

This is delicate, 

so I don't ask. 

I don't let you know that when you make me breakfast in the mornings, 

or ask if I'm okay as soon as anxiety crosses my mind, 

(I didn't even have to tell you), 

I feel a warmth inside my chest and a thankfulness that I am not doing this with anyone else, 

that at least, it's you.  

I don't let you know that when you ask about how I am, 

I hesitate to answer you truthfully, 

because why should you want more out of me? 

Why should I wear my heart on my sleeve for someone that will eventually leave me? 

This is all so delicate, 

so I don't ask. 

I don't let you know that when you ask why I'm so quiet or why I am not myself around you, 

it is because I am hesitant and scared, 

worried that I will become vulnerable, 

I will let you in and grow attached 

to someone I can only call by their first name; 

no labels or words of endearment attached.  

But still,  

I wonder what it would be like to cry to you, 

open up to you and pour all my secrets out, 

just like you've been asking me to do, 

hold you when you're upset and need to be consoled, 

even though you tell me you no longer get these days. 

I wonder what it would be like for us to have our first argument, 

our first real fight, 

how heavy it will weigh down on my chest as I realise that some lines need to be crossed 

for things to come full circle, 

but how awful it is to have done this with you. 

I wonder what it would be like 

if we tell our friends, 

"Oh, we're a thing now" 

something official and no longer just casual, 

will they be surprised or will they have seen it coming all along? 

My intuition is so normally right,  

but now I find it confuses me, 

blurs my thoughts and leaves me daydreaming, because I can't tell how this will play out, 

I can’t tap into my own higher self, because I’m still trying to find it. 

This is delicate,  

so I don't ask, 

but still I sit here and 

wonder what it would be like to love you. 

Lynn is a 23-year-old Lebanese woman amidst a crisis of the self, the country, and existence. When all else fails, she resorts to writing about the many topics troubling her; often, this is love, capitalism, politics, and feminism. Lately, she has shifted the narrative towards herself, in a very belated attempt of self-exploration and self-love.

You can find her work at: Rusted Radishes  , Arcca Magazine& Instagram