In The Streets of Cihangir
Brown eyes filled with curiosity for the newcomer to town. A smile that still lights up the room. Questions you asked multiple times were a sign of your genuine curiosity.
I am far away from you now, and having practiced the art of forgetting, I know that not seeing your face every day will make things a little easier.
There was never any hope for us, but love doesn’t need hope to grow. Love is a cactus that survives even in the driest of deserts, priding itself on its self-sufficiency.
Above all, I want to see you happy. As I walk from Cihangir down Boğazkesen Street and near the salty air of the Bosphorus in Tophane, I hear your laughter mixed with the bells that announce the arrival of the tram. I hop on the tram and end up in Beyazit.
To love is to be prepared for the inevitable loss. Like the minarets that lose their orange glow towards dawn, and although the sun fills the sky, the stones are left cold. The bookstores in Beyazit help me forget and lose myself in words and conversations with booksellers. The call to prayer echoes, filling me with melancholy and making me wish I could run to Suleymaniye. I stay in Beyazit Mosque’s dark courtyard while the wind whistles through the trees and the October breeze dries the tears from my face.
There are words I haven’t dared to whisper to you but that I do say out loud from time to time when I’m alone. I say your name over and over again in the…
