It’s hot. My tears are slowly evaporating.
And forming a salty pool of pleasurable guilt.
Yet, your heavy sadness is about to throw my floating heart out of our window made of fragile (already broken) dreams.
She’s three now, by the way. “Big” and gracious.
Why can’t we be like her – happy, curious, and loving? But sweating in tears and complaining about the heat of our arguments?
It’s too hot.
Pictures: Doha, Qatar
@All rights reserved