I, who makes love with her flesh and writes by hand so that you read me and recount the neon lights alongside Vakil Bazaar: the courtyards, old shops, and late night summer breeze through the mosquito nets. After all what is life but a wretched mirror if I don't write for you and you don't read me? Beloved! Your presence may be a swelled pulse, a modern consumption, or a collectible antique to possessive souls but to me it is the manifestation and the revealing compassion. For that reason I trust my words to be read by those who may not know what love is, and judged by wolves' eyes, so that emptiness will not remain their only path in life. I cannot be shamed. I shame those who want to make me turn into a naive heart, bewitched by tainted rules as human rights friendly. My beloved! I have seen men die before my eyes, bombs drop, children flee, and women cry because they were ordered to observe a stifling silence. It is within all these things that I utter your name and want you to undress me into a world where you can dip your fingers inside me. I lie back and watch you as you move on top of me to uncover the mystery. I point at the center, where eternal life flows, spins, and mesmeric memories turn into the heart of a child. I love you and in loving you everything becomes simple, clear, and content. Rules do not find limitations. I do not treat loving you as a guest or a visitor. When in love, pain does not have an authentic presence. Feelings avoid struggle, failure, and distraction. I am no longer a prisoner of tryouts, crust, and coated walls. I am not formless. I do not seek to find sentimental ways to satisfy you. My desire is not a fantasy to begin with or to be parted from. I am to feel the warmth without detention, I who wants to put a face on the godly presence of love.  ~Sheema Kalbasi