I dream, my Love, to serve you in every way.
If I could just bring you your mukḥalah,
And watch you put on kuḥl, just to see the most beautiful eyes God has ever made.
I want to bring you your pillow, or if you would— use my thigh,
That I can be used as a tool for your relaxation.
If I may, I’d like you to ask me to bury your hair,
But instead, I keep locks of these magical strands and place them under my turban and tongue.
I just want to bring you water for wuḍūʾ,
And catch every drop of water so I may drink to eternal satiation.
I want to bring you your miswāk,
And after you use it, use it myself.
I’m head-over-heels, just to do anything with your sandals;
Just to take them off your perfect feet when you sit, and keep kissing the sibtiyyah.
And when you get up, gently place them back onto your feet, hoping to touch them.
Maybe, just maybe. If you would allow me, let me kiss them.
How I’ve longed for this moment, even the sand under them would do.
Or maybe if you have cupping done, you ask me to dispose of your blood,
And my method of disposal is that of Ibn Al-Zubayr.
And then you utter, “The Fire of Hell becomes Ḥaram, and will not touch the blood that has mixed with mine.”
What joy, what happiness.
Not because I’m saved from Hell.
But because not being in Hell, means being with you in Paradise.
To see you. To hug you. To kiss you.
Serving you for eternity in Paradise.