Dear Aisha,
I write this from the depth of my art
not the depth of my heart,
because there's nothing left
of the heart since you left.

Aisha,
When I called you the apple of my eye,
I meant it!
I didn't mean an iPhone logo.
How come someone somewhere
dey chop your work by the side?

I thought you giving me flowers
meant I'm your beautiful garden.
But I've forgotten,
that even the grave sometimes
get the best of flowers.
It's done on me before realizing
I had dyslexia,
as I couldn't read the handwriting on the wall.
I was so beclouded by my innocence –
a little boy finding love like
finding his mother's breast in the dark.

Every fragment of you in my memory
provokes me to hold my middle name by my hands
and cast it at any soul that comes in your image.

Aisha,
Do you know I've stopped taking the holy communion?
I mean, how do I break the body of my saviour
when my soul is filled with bitterness?
A broken boy, from a broken home, with a broken heart...

Nothing to worry, Aisha.
I try to glue the pieces of my heart with an art;
I pack these pieces of my pain and call them poems.

So, Aisha,
Thank you!
Thank you for being part of these pieces.

Yours truly,
Bubu.