Renaming Love: Three Poems by Ammar Aziz

before the burn

we found each other

in a silence far from cities,

where only the sky dared scream.

above,

warplanes cleaved the air —

a blade through silk,

cracking the skin of the heavens.

but your hands were a hush

on my chest,

your mouth

a petal-drunk delirium,

tasting of dust and rain.

the threat was there —

a metallic tang in the air —

all grit and tremble.

but so were we,

urgent, unashamed, naked:

your warm breast

in my sweating palm,

your breath petting

a bird caught in my throat —

we kissed like rebels,

moaned

in the valley blacked out

by sirens.

before the flames,

we caught fire:

bright,

brief,

beautiful.

and when we broke,

we broke into shimmering atoms.

when we kiss again

it will feel like childhood eid:

a rush of sweetness —

euphoric, like a kite

slicing through lahore’s spring —

sky oozing mango pulp,

air jasmine-scented & wide.

i’ll feel at home —

even far from my house

with impossible architecture:

rooms rearranging themselves,

walls that shed skin,

the front powdered

like an aging bride

whenever a wedding erupts in the street.

when we kiss again,

it will remind me of a child

peering through a fogged mirror,

his mother’s silhouette behind steam,

the sound of water

slipping down skin —

that was once home —

a lullaby unsung.

and if we never kiss —

what else will i lose?

not just a sliver of language,

but the part that births itself:

new words blooming,

only when I taste your tongue.

renaming love

if lahore’s krishannagar

and up’s allahabad

made love —

they would meet at dusk,

beneath a sky too tired to judge.

they would strip their suffixes

like old shawls,

and place them by the river

not allowed to cross

the radcliffe line.

no longer ‘nagar’,

no longer ‘abad’,

just krishan

and allah

and an impossible longing

but their names have been changed:

krishannagar is now islampura,

allahabad, prayagraj.

and i can no longer smell

their streets’ adolescence,

only borderlines

drawn

with municipal ink.

i try to cuddle them,

but how do you touch

what has been renamed

by hands that only erase?

they rename the towns

so the dead can be displaced twice.

but the ruins know.

the drains, the rooftops,

the paan-stained walls

with lovers’ names,

the shy mosques

and meditating temples,

remember.

they do not forget

the warmth of krishannagar’s diwali night

or the fragrance

of allahbad’s dreamy azaan.

i want to believe

cities and street can love.

i want to believe

beneath the new names,

they are still reaching

for each

other.

not with maps,

but with memories

of love.

---

Ammar Aziz is a poet, filmmaker and a classically trained musician. His debut book, The Missing Prayer, was recently published by Red River.