kış ortasında temiz hava derdine açık cam önünde sabahlarım ben.
yaz ortasında içeriye sıcak kaçmasın diye bütün kapılar pencereler kapalı.

kendimi sakinleştirmek için tek yapmam gereken eskiden yazdıklarımı okumak.
bildiklerimi unutuyorum ben de her insan gibi, kendimi unutuyorum. 
hatırlamak için tek yapmam gereken parmaklarımdan dökülmüşleri takip etmek.

korkudan uykularım titriyor...

bugün farkettim,
türkçe yazmayı özlemişim.

whenever i tell my family i am leaving town, they make me promise that i shall return. they are afraid i'll disappear.
i can't decide if it's sad or funny.

i can't really blame them, they've seen me cut too many ropes, they've seen me jump from too many bridges... plus i never form the right sentences to ease their minds. even when i promise, i promise for each specific time. yet i can't blame myself either, i made too many plans unrealized, dreamt too many riddles unsolved, and the unpredictability of life is timeless. so all i say is  "i'll come back as long as i'm physically able" all i say is  "don't be silly, i still have unfinished business." and all they hear is "you are not enough to keep me here, but i shall be around for a while longer."

i am the youngest of three sisters, yet they all look at me like i'll be first to go.

respect can not be demanded, it can only be earned.

i went through too many swamps to remain clean, fell over too many dumpsters. i jumped off high cliffs and broke many bones crawling through ant hills. and the me on paper never caught up with the one breathing, and the breathing me looked down on the paper with pity.

bedtime stories: her tounge

He knew how to intrigue women, how to push their buttons and strike a conversation. He had been a player as long as he could remember. His dark hair was smooth as silk, and shone around his strong face. His face wasn’t a player’s face; he was blessed with trustworthy and kind features. He knew he couldn’t have lasted in the game if “asshole” was written on his forehead, and cheeks, and lips. Women loved his lips; they wanted to kiss him almost immediately, not that they would admit to it. Women loved playing hard to get, and he loved getting them.

So when he sat down across the pretty girl he had chosen for a play date, he was ready for all the possible conversations. He had chosen the opening line, and his comebacks to her likely replies. This one looked like a romantic; glasses and short bangs, no make-up, a black loose summer dress, and a notebook on the table. Complimenting her on her looks wouldn’t work, she would probably laugh and dismiss him immediately. Real romantics have player radars you see; they like things that last for a while, and they know a player is not worth the excitement of new beginnings. They know you can’t write a full story with a player. This one looked pensive, not sad, not mad; but as if she was solving a puzzle as she stared at her notebook. She was probably a romantic years haven’t turned bitter yet.

He sat down across from her and said “Have you ever been in love?” This wasn’t the opening line he had chosen. It was nowhere near it. He was going to tell her he needed help pretending he wasn’t alone at a bar on a Friday afternoon for his ex had just walked in. "I need ten minutes of your time, if you please," he was going to say; "and I would appreciate it if you could be kind enough to pretend you were enjoying yourself." Ten minutes was all he needed; in ten minutes he would get her hooked... and then drunk, and then it would be flying sheets and screaming beasts till dawn. He had a feeling about this one, this one liked it rough; she had the jaws of a fierce feline. Yet as he sat down, under her unstartled gaze, as his glass met the table a bit too hard, as he bumped his knee on the chair, he found himself saying “Have you ever been in love?”

She tilted her head a little, a faint smile passed through her eyelashes for a second. She yawned covering her mouth with her notebook, sat back in her chair, put her bare feet across the one he had bumped into seconds ago, took her glasses off, and closed her eyes.

“I need an exact definition of ‘being in love’, so I can reply in your tongue. Nobody speaks the same language these days.”

This was going all wrong. He felt unsure; he looked around the bar, wondering if he had picked the wrong girl. Even his eyes had lost focus now. He was losing his calm.

“Why did you close your eyes? What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing is wrong. You, good sir, have a beautiful mask of a face. If I look at it long enough I might add undeserved adjectives to your existence. There is nothing more dangerous than hasty dedication of names."
“I need to see your eyes to speak with you.”
“You can’t be trusted to look into them, either. They have a mind of their own; and without knowing my language, theirs might confuse you.“
“Are you crazy or something?”
“And now I need a definition of the word crazy to reply truthfully.”
“Good luck with that.”

As he got up, he almost knocked over his beer glass. She caught it. All of a sudden, her feet were down, her eyes were open, and she was handing his glass to him. There was something splendid about the shape of her lips, and the light of her eyelashes. It took him a second to realize she was smiling. Her face remained glorious as she wiped the beer drops off her glasses and put them back on. He was still standing there. She was smiling into him.

“Run along now; go play with the others. I don’t mind.”

He had no idea if he had won or lost with her. He knew it was a big mistake to address a woman as crazy even in the form of a question, but there she had replied with that silly talk about definitions. So how come he was the one feeling silly and lost?

He walked away, fearing she had erased him. He wouldn’t be surprised if his straight hair had grown curls all of a sudden. He had a feeling it was her tongue that he had to speak now. It was her tongue his mouth needed. He knew he would go back to that table over and over again until he knew what she was. Until she told her what he was with eyes wide open.

mother called me pink and white
sister called me red (she is the red one i must add)
i had a lover call me purple
a friend said i had always been black
in colours they named me
and i humbly bowed my head
i wasn't a fleeing feeling to forget
it wasn't my taste that they were after
my presence filled their eyes with colours
and thus i could never be effaced