“I have no use for these other loves.
Seal them shut in jars
and place them in the pantry.
A reserve of love.

Thank them for their love.
They are so kind.
Perhaps store them in the fridge
For others to take.

They say love is a panacea.
I know it is not.
Flakes of snow,
no two are alike.

When I am down on my knees,
hopeless and angry,
for the world no longer makes sense,
I won’t look in the fridge or pantry.

It is your hand pressing on my shoulder
that makes me whole,
makes me forget:
‘What trouble? What world?’”

Kamand Kojouri

“Like a pair of old slippers,
I feel comfort and
warmth as I slip into you.
No, that is too crude.

Like the match to the wick,
I ignite when we touch.
My counterpart and
life’s purpose.
Yes, as though I’ve known you my whole life.

Every scar,
every failure
has become an affirmation
of what should be:
You.
Yes, as though I’ve loved you my whole life.”

Kamand Kojouri

“Come into my world.

I will show you the phenomenon that Stendhal experienced.

I will help you feel the cascading arpeggios of Wagner’s overture.

I will dance to Doga’s waltzes with you.

A day spent without appreciating the beauty surrounding us is a waste.

Let me appreciate you.”

Kamand Kojouri

“Take me when I’m wild.
Take me when I’m free.
Take me for me
and I will take you
as you want to be.”

Kamand Kojouri

“Lovers dream of one more embrace.
One more kiss.
One act of love, no matter how small.
For in loving, lover and beloved
emptied themselves.
Now,
they look for their oasis
like men engulfed in flames.
Even filled to the brim,
they will never satiate.
For they continue to leak, these
cracked vessels.
How else did love seep through?”

Kamand Kojouri

“My mind is being consumed by you.
My body is longing for you.
Just one touch or a kiss,
And I shall be satiated for a thousand years.”

Kamand Kojouri

“They want to know
who I write these poems for.
Tell them it’s for all lovers
because I don’t see a difference
between our love
and their love.”

Kamand Kojouri

“I don’t know why we fight.
It takes much too effort to stay mad at you.
To dodge your skin in the hallway
and leave the kitchen without bringing you a treat.
It takes much too effort to stare at the sink
so my eyes don’t smile at you in the mirror.
It takes much too effort to look away as we undress
and lie apart in the now bigger bed.
It takes much too effort to stiffen my body
because sleepy limbs forget fights
and pride is always lost in dreams.
It takes much too effort to awaken every hour to make sure we are islands with a gulf of white sheets separating us.
I dread the light peeking through the parted curtains
and empathise with your groans —
I didn’t get any sleep either.
I really don’t know why we fight.
It takes much too effort to stay mad at one another
when it’s so easy for us to love.”

Kamand Kojouri

“I’ve written you sixty-seven love poems.
Here’s another one for you.
But really, for me.
These poems are the candles that I light
with the fire you have ignited in me.
I place this candle here and another there
so even if the stars have argued with the moon
and are sulking away in a corner,
you can still find your way to me.
Sixty-eight poems now. What
does the future hold for us?
Joy? Disappointment? Gentle caresses? And subtle neglect?
I hope the good is more than the bad. Much more.
For what is the point of love
if by lighting these candles
our own flame loses its brightness?
I know the good is more than the bad.
Much more.
I cannot wait to write you sixty-nine.”

Kamand Kojouri

“Does God know
the number of kisses
before we fall in love?
Yesterday, I was nobody
and I believed myself important.
Today,
I feel my worth
in you.
You, with your emerald eyes and ebony hair,
even your heartbeat is beautiful.
You, who is my greatest joy,
all other concerns vanish in your presence.
You swallow time
and consume space,
inspiring all my passion
with a single embrace.
I love your existence.”

Kamand Kojouri