I am jealous of everything around you. I am jealous of my senses. The air is the colour of gardenias, your smell on my shoulders like laughter and triumphal arches.
I am jealous of the vase, which has no need of its yellow roses because you give it the full benefit of your deep red lips, hungry for my hunger.
I am jealous of the painting staring greedily at you: look longer at me, so I too can have my fill of lakes and cherry orchards.
I am envious of my fingers catching the dialogue of darkness and light as it overflows from your hands..
The movement of a spoon in your teacup..
I envy my tongue, which calls your name with as much care as someone carrying four crystal glasses in one hand.
I taste the letters of your name one by one, like lyrical fruits. I do not add water to them, so as to preserve the taste of peaches and the thirst of my senses.
I envy my imagination embracing you, silencing you, holding you tight and letting you go, bringing you near and pushing you away, and doing all the things I never do.
— Mahmoud Darwish.
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