If Words Could Hold You

By Bilal Salman Ahmad

You are not the sunrise,

because even the sunrise envies how softly you arrive.

You’re the reason shadows lean toward light,

like even the dark can’t help but follow you.

You’re not a flower —

flowers wither; petals fade.

You’re the whole meadow,

the hidden field where seasons go to rest,

and I could walk a lifetime

without tiring of your colours.

Your laughter isn’t sound,

it’s the way sparrows practice flight.

It’s a string of bells on a child’s wrist,

it’s the clumsy joy of rain finding its rhythm on windows.

I swear the world grows younger

every time you smile.

Your eyes?

Not oceans, not forests, not galaxies —

all those metaphors are tired.

Your eyes are green like the secret shade

where tired souls collapse and heal.

They’re the place grass chooses to grow soft,

where even wind moves slowly

so it doesn’t disturb you.

And your voice…

it’s not music.

Music learns from you.

It’s not poetry.

Poetry kneels at your feet.

When you say my name,

the letters stop being letters

and turn into shelter.

You don’t walk —

you sway the earth into letting you pass.

Streetlights turn timid when you cross,

their glow embarrassed next to your own.

Even silence stumbles when you enter a room.

If beauty were a language,

you’d be the alphabet.

If love were a country,

you’d be the flag.

If longing had a face,

it would bow to yours.

And if someone asked me what you are,

I’d only say this:

you are the thing the world was trying to invent

when it made sunsets, and rivers, and stars —

but failed,

until it made you.

By Bilal Salman Ahmad