I write and take pictures, then write and take pictures, then write and take pictures, looking at my white paper, then taking pictures
I remember the night we met and then I take pictures
I long for my mother’s scent and then take pictures
I drink coffee once and then take pictures
I smoke a cigarette I don’t want between my lips and then take pictures
I close my eyes and see you under the moonlight and then take pictures
I repeat the French film for the fourth time, and then take pictures
I wait for the bus for the third time in the heat and then take pictures
I sing a song to myself, and then I take pictures
I fear death
I repeat some prayers
Fear eats me
And fun and a lot of insomnia
Where are we and why do we have what we have
I drink a glass of water because it helps
then take pictures.
Four hours are not short enough
To forget his face,
The wrinkles and ripples
Of the wind’s song on his black shirt,
Or the way his fingers danced
On her palm lines.
As the sun lingers less
And the fall breeze carries him away,
1000 lifetimes of potential are harbored
in a moment
floating
On the oceans between them.
Forty days are not long enough
To forget their city —
a paradox perfectly positioned
between the mountains and the sea
between lawless pleasures and stolen dreams
Its port still collapsing
Its safe haven still burning
Its heart carries the weight,
the sins of the fancy suits and fancy speeches, its pulse
weakens
With every blind eye and deaf ear turned
At the the top
Until it can only be heard
In news breaking through door sills
In every sip of Turkish coffee
followed by a smile
In every phone call to the sons and daughters
of jaded hands reaching out for the sea
In sweet nothings between lovers
As their moment
Their safe haven
Burns until nothing is left,
Until hellos are goodbyes.
How long has it been?
The fancy suits and fancy speeches
plaster their faces
On top of the cracks in the walls
The moment burns
Until nothing is left
Until hellos are goodbyes.