To my husband

I write
whenever I am miserable
and my heart cries in silence
for the empty seats of love within me,
when my mind is heavy
with unsaid words 
and negativity towards itself
– then my hand starts writing 
the most beautiful and tragical poems
I could ever think of.

But today I am writing 
out of happiness and love,
with no empty seats left
– a crowd that has come to witness 
the most magical moment of all.

Today I am breathing
– in and out,
slowly inhaling the sweet scent of your skin;
and exhaling in utter calmness
all problems that we have learned to forget with the passing of time.

Today I am content
with everything there is
and with everything there has ever been.

Jehona Thaqi© thank you, husband

A letter to my unborn child

There is life growing 
within the spaces of my body I once despised;
a new heart beating against the insecurities of my own,
fullfilling me with strength
I did not know existed.

Dear child,
you are still as small as a rose petal,
yet for your mother you are greater than anything this world contains;
for you have filled my body with life
and you are nourishing my spirit with seeds of love.

Dear child;
I keep pressing my hands against my stomach,
softly – 
wishing you were already within my hands,
but good things take time;
so I will wait patiently until the day we meet
and I will kiss your cheeks and small hands
until your cries soften and you fall asleep.

I wish my words were enough to express the love I feel towards you,
dearest child,
but my tongue is unable to speak what my heart has felt
since the day I knew you existed.

Within my twenty years upon this world
I have never felt stronger
until you became my very source of happiness.

Jehona Thaqi© all rights reserved



I can feel the loss within my heart grow;

emptiness tangling its roots around my bones,

sadness settling inbetween my mouth and eyes,

making it hard to talk

and even harder to cry;

my body a war-field of lost soldiers, trying to protect

the ruins of the saint heart a woman carries within.


I have lost my words,

or was it my tongue, I do not know,

and in agony of losing myself 

I have lost the parts of me I loved;

it is said that beauty lies within the eyes of the beholder,

but what beauty is there

in dying hearts and tongue-tied women.


I have become the woman you desired;

dear friend,

I have lost my words, or tongue,

or maybe both

and with them the strength of my bones,

I have lost wars within my mind

and I have opened the doors of my soul to the dark emptiness

that will sooner or later conquer

the remaining ruins of this body.


I have lost,

and I am losing;

I have become

and I am becoming;

woman enough,


Jehona© I am sorry



My skin smells of smoke
reminding me of how they lit my dreams to flames
and let them burn to ashes.

They have dragged my soul through mud
drenching every inch of it with pain,
while their evil laughter echoed throughout my body.

I hear their voices in dreams of mine,
talking quietly to me upon how I was never enough,
comparing me to rotten flowers in mid october.

Back then, when they lit my dreams to flames,
I was too small to comprehend their satanic words,
but today I can still smell the scent of my burned skin.

You see, the ashes have been the fertilizer for the flower I have become,
it made me grow in depth, with heavy roots and vivid leaves.
But there are days where I feel like drowning,
nights in which I can still hear their sad voices,
moments of despair and fear.

It is in moments like these
in which I float in the darkest of my memories
like a lost pearl in the wide and bobbing sea.

But I am still shining.

Jehona Thaqi ©

Our bed

I could not sleep

in days,

yet my eyes collapsed 

and my body was numb,

aching and screaming

for just a little rest.

But when I layed down,

upon our bed,

and I watched your empty side,

all fatigue was gone.

I pressed my eyes together,

in order to forget your absence,

yet my body, heavy and big,

did not know how to fill the space.

I wanted to sleep,

God, how I wanted to sleep,

but I had forgotten how to sleep alone,

I had forgotten how to fit my body

into these sheets that still smelled of you,

how to be enough for this bed.

And when I crawled out of it in the mornings,

the cussions still perfectly arranged the way you always wanted it to be,

I glanced at your empty spot and wondered,

if you had slept well.
Jehona Thaqi© broken writings

Dear G.,


I have written your name inside of my wrists,
even if new hands will hold me
they will never be able to reach you.

I have hidden our history underneath my tongue,
I will not speak of you, but I will always taste the sweetness
of what we once had.

I have left a part of you in my heart;
it has grown roots so strong that even after years of solitude
I can still feel them moving against my heartbeat.

I have named the universe after you
as only your name would come close
to the explosive and unexplainable mystery above our heads.

You see, you will never leave this heart of mine,
even if you are already gone.

Jehona Thaqi © notes I took while sitting in your favorite café



She needed someone
to hold her small body
all crawled up
in the corner of her room;
the cold floor
pressed against her soft skin,
in this temporary life,
she needed to be promised eternity.

She needed someone
to hold her hands
while she held tight to the cigarette;
and in agony of breaking it,
she pressed it against her cherry lips,
inhaled the pain
and exhaled her dull memories
of being nothing
but toxic.

She needed someone
to kiss her scars and blisters,
for she was told that time will pass
and will make her forget,
but she remembered all the promises
which have never been held;
time made scars fade
but the memories remained
crammed inside her heart.

She needed someone
to make her forget the mess she was;
but she held herself
and like a broken warrior she fought
wars within her mind.

Jehona Thaqi©



She sat quietly at her favorite café
her hands pressed against each other,
and her dark eyes glaring at the streets,
so sad yet somehow curious,
so full of life, but packed with bags of forgotten dreams.
On this rainy day, with skies turning gray
and umbrellas dancing around the streets,
she sat there,
as if it was everything within her life of
nothing-ever-happens’ and
her reflection in the window staring at her pale skin
and dark eyes.

Pale skin and dark eyes,
lips as small and fragile as the wings of a butterfly;
lips that forgot how to speak
since the day you told her it did not matter;
she was not beautiful,
considering the weight on her bones
and the scars on her skin,
and her small, fragile lips.

Her white cheeks drowned in tears of
do-not-forget-me’s and
but she sat quietly at her favorite café,
her face still mellow and soft,
and eyes;
oh her eyes,
as dark as the pain within her heart
and as wide as the love she has given.

Pale skin and dark eyes
and lips that forgot how to speak.
Her reflection,

Jehona Thaqi©

| Part One


Sitting at the edge of my bed I poured myself a drink or two; I do not quite remember, for the thought of her made me quiver and consumed my capacity of thinking. How strange of a night it has been, I thought, while the first twitterings entered my house and sunrays fell on the white curtains.

She was a delightful woman, with black eyes and porcelain skin; her golden hair falling swiftly upon her shoulders, a scent of honey and flowers made heads turn and eyes follow her at any price.
As she spoke, soft and slow, with an utterly romantic and somewhat tragic voice, and words so bitter-sweet, they could have escaped Oscar Wilde’s novels, people became silent. They listened carefully to what they might never fully understand, but what else could you do but listen to this wonderful creature.
Even her silence was graceful, as she glared at you with a childish curiosity, but a mature strength and recklessness. She rarely smiled, what made me eager to conquer her, for her smile stirred in me the desire of being her only spectator. I was fond of that woman since the day I first saw her at the local’s butcher, what a strange place to meet the woman of your deepest dreams, and so I made sure to encounter her as often as possible.

You see, I only later understood that it was impossible to conquer a woman who possesses every inch of your mind.


It was shortly after noon when the phone rang and I got torn from my dreams. I had fallen asleep with the empty liquor glass tightly slung around my hand; and it was only now that I smelled the awful scent of alcohol within my room. The sun shone brightly at the windows of my apartment and made the air thicker than on the usual rainy days. I lifted my body, still tired of last night, and hushed to the ringing phone. 

“Still asleep, Francis?”. 
It was Dorian, who annoyed me with his too loud and content voice, pretending to be the luckiest man alive and having nothing to worry about. Yet his life too, like many others, was in pieces. “Richard and me will meet at the theatre today, do you want to join us?”, he asked, with the same happy voice. “I’ll be there at six, don’t be late”, I answered and ended the call a few seconds later. 

I was putting on the new olive suit I had bought at Edgar’s a few days before when I realized that my face had altered. My usually pale and hollow cheeks looked vivid in its almost pink colour and it seemed that my gradually blackening hair was as enchanting as ever. I wouldn’t call myself handsome, for I had a crooked nose and small eyes, but ever since I met that woman I had gained something utterly interesting. There was something about her that made my body come to life.

Jehona Thaqi©

Withering flower


Remember this;
if you find my petals withered and crooked,
lying still upon the freshly sprouted grass,
then leave me there.
Do not try to give life to the dead,
for its time of beauty has passed so quickly within a temporary world.

Remember this;
if you find my heart in pieces,
then do not mend the broken,
for the broken has its way of saying that pain has been stronger than its capacity of being what it was.

Beating hearts, like flowers are the most majestic creations of God.
But remember, broken hearts may be beating, 
but its glory has passed like withering flowers.

Jehona Thaqi© does this poem even matter