by Sara Khayat
i know this world. i know its ashes, stale smoke. i know the insides of every man, woman, child. i’ve seen the bottom of every bottle. i’ve seen the no-shows and the take-me-or-leave-me’s. needles, scalpels, blood lost blood gained, bones bones bones. i’ve seen the dead placed into the soil i’ve seen the veins. i’ve seen through me. x-ray machines, overturned cars, mirrors and mirrors and mirrors. i’ve seen the sand and the satellites. the have-homes and the no-homes the hopeful and the healers, the hungry and the hurting. i’ve seen the concrete and the names. names etched in stone, written in skies, on walls, letters. memories fade, shrinking brains. i’ve seen the happy and the whole. i’ve seen real and make-believe. i see a ghost of you, somewhere past the train tracks and the sea lions. i see you in the salt. i see you in traffic lights, road work, i see you in asphalt. i see you in blue jeans and hotel sheets. i see you in airports and parking lots. oceans, lakes, elsewheres. i see you, do you see me? ancient eyes, young hands that haven’t even begun to feel.
Sara Khayat was born and raised in Los Angeles, California. She is editor-in-chief of Paper Plane Pilot Publishing (thepaperplanepilots.com). She graduated from California State University, Northridge with a BA in English/Creative Writing and a minor in Psychology. Her mind is full of wildflowers, ladybugs and grey matters. Give her a shout and she’ll give you a whisper.