I sighed yesterday. A sigh of relief. Summer is finally gone, and its daunting smells have abandoned my nostrils. They are making way for the smells of judicious seasoning of emotions only Autumn can fathom.
Moderation, my friend. The subtle taste of herbal extracts. Autumn and its creamy texture. Kale soup and some Mozzarella kebabs.
A sigh of relief that the stifling temperature of summer has melted beneath Autumn's sensual rhythm. Come and dance with me. Pull me closer, my friend, and allow my body to melt inside yours. I sigh again. No longer a sigh of relief. It is a wanton, careless, free sigh, really. I must add that, My city, as well, breathes differently today.
Even though, mind you, it is Sunday. And Sundays are notorious for penetrating our deepest wounds, and most embarrassing scars, flaunting them wide open, laying them bare for everyone to see. Most of all, us.
The color of honey, my friend. That is the city's palette today. It is no longer a loud conversation my Beirut has with all of us lost people. It has lowered its voice, allowing you to pull me closer as I melt into what I hope will be a faint sweetness.
Autumn does not rush. Neither must you, my friend, as you pull me closer and the city lowers its voice and covers us both with crimson leaves.
The new season slips through the balcony curtains, glides across your hand, as it lifts the daunting smells of summer from my soul, along with my satin dress. Across coffee shops and the forbidden desires on lonely tables. The silk shawl resting protectively on my shoulders hides my sigh of relief, and my reckless hair strands.
The walls of my Ras Beirut glow with old stories we hide most of all from ourselves. I walk slowly on the pavements overlooking the wary sea.
You sip your coffee slowly. When did you stop pulling me closer, my friend? My Berry and Blu chase the shadow of something that must be too delicate to name. Henry, my canary, observes, with a hint of arrogance. And a touch of heartwarming vulnerability.
The world suddenly feels safer. Tell me, my friend, are we still allowed to bask in the private rhythm of safety? I am tired of resisting. I let go of the scent of Jasmine, summer wears as a dress, and nights heavy with laughter and such touchingly unrealistic promises.
I will step aside, if you do not wish to pull me closer. The coffee shops grow quieter. My desires less urgent. Endings seem less tragic. A small thank you to this city that keeps reminding me that what remains is just as pretty as all that has chosen to leave.
And our fragile dance can be a written promise disguised as something not meant to be.
pull me closer, my friend. lift my satin dress and turn this moment into a hidden sigh of relief. A velvet whisper and honey baked apples. Perhaps, later on, a sip or two of cardamom coffee and a bite or two from the hot dog rolls my mother used to fervently cook, when she wanted to distract us.
Pull me closer, my friend. Promise me that what I have released has not vanished. Nor did it abandon me. It has simply slithered its way to your hand, as it slowly pulls me closer. And Autumn in this decadent city is asking me to open the windows to the evening breeze.
A lesson in elegance.
Berry demands attention. Blu stretches, yet again. Henry sings soft whispers of longing.
I spread walnuts and almonds on a baking sheet. A bit of warmth, my friend. For Sundays, always come unannounced.
But I forget all that, as soon as you pull me closer.
I take a bite or two from the hot dog rolls my late mother has baked for me so many years ago.
EN 
AR