There are women who touch the burning love of the soul, cross your life like a beautiful musical phrase, that the heart keeps humming for years after separating from them. And others without an ending to the chorus, and as they’re leaving, you wonder, is there still more or not? And there are, from who you get only a single glimpse of a memory, like a single note of a piano leaving you hanging for a look. And others like dissonances, that you can’t tune, who don’t leave until they wreck the harmony in all the creatures around you.
And then, there is that woman, simple as a flute, close as a violin, elegant in black as a piano, warm as an oud. She is all the instruments in a woman. She is a philharmonic symphony of desire, but even though you won’t play any of those instruments in her. She is your impossible rhythm.
Nizar Qabbani (via calvalley858)