My Heart, An Abandoned Beehive Poem by Noureddine Kl

I never had friends
to mourn when they died
or when they vanished—light as an old wind.

I never built rooms
for those who might come to me alone,
because no one ever did.
No one ever came.

Since the beginning,
my heart has been an abandoned beehive—
honey seeping from it,
ancient honey,
rotten...
Perhaps it turned to poison.
Or froze,
like all the blood
that crusted over my wounds.

So don't ask me:
Which of your friends do you cherish most?
I have no friends.

Don't ask me:
What's your fondest memory of friendship?
All my memories are shattered mirrors.
And each time I look,
I see my face in fragments,
my shadow bent,
my body—
a gaping hole that devours the days
while scars drift across its skin
like worn-out patches.

So, by God, tell me:
What does a friend's embrace feel like?
How does laughter rise
in empty rooms when friends reunite?
How do scars sprout from scars
and become trees?
What is the feel of a hand on your shoulder—
the sense that someone's near
and your sorrow weighs less in their presence?

These are things... I've never known.
All I've ever tasted is bitter loneliness,
and each time I spit it out,
its flavor grows again in my mouth.

So don't ask me...
I have no friends.
And I am no friend to anyone.

My feet are worn.
My distances, vast.
My grief is wild, untamed.
And my heart—
my heart is an abandoned beehive.