sometimes i think of yusuf, at the beginning. poet son of a merchant boy in borrowed armour, skull cracked open on a rock. how long until he returns home again? How does he return, estranged, to those Ithica-like Tunisian shores? Can his father still recognize his covered face?
yusuf al-kaysani, the son, the poet, the not-soldier, made and unmade each night in the looms of his mother's memory, mindbody woven and unwoven by something infinite and nameless.
sometimes i think about "di genova" vs. "al-kaysani". a land versus a bloodline. How they lose both, and then the names, too. immortal odysseus, ogygia-bound, longing to see the smoke that rises from his homeland, longing for death, kept in the soft-tender company of his murderer.
(really, you were founded on the bloody rock of holy ground. really, sometimes there is no return from war. at least not from this. not from the way he touches you.)
You're a child. An infant. Your mocking is thus infantile. He's not my boyfriend. This man is more to me than you can dream. He's the moon when I'm lost in darkness and warmth when I shiver in cold. And his kiss still thrills me, even after a millennia. His heart overflows with a kindness of which this world is not worth of. I love this man beyond measure and reason. He's not my boyfriend. He's all and he's more.
writing fanfiction is just fingers clenching over a keyboard as you ferally mutter i just want this little guy to be held, damn it and proceeding to hurt said little guy (gn) for about 10k words before you actually give them their hug