Friday, December 30, 2011
She slowly got used to it
the way her ideas evolve in time
they say Everest was an ocean a few million years ago.
She always knew that the silent,
on her left eyebrow
made when she fell out of bonu didi's hand
was considerably poetic
and on certain Saturdays
a few years ago
when she showered for hours
she looked at herself in the mirror
she tried to wipe it.
It was like
the famous writers unappreciated favorite book.
And he told him
being the first guy ever,
would it hurt a lot if I kiss you there.
After eight years of consciousness about the opposite sex
and the knowledge of sex.
A few men who were there and yet not.
Writing poems on white A-four sheets with a perfect handwriting.
Whining to friends about females being objectified.
Reading Pamuk, Tolstoy and sometimes trash.
She met him.
He who would gaze at her for hours.
Who would describe her beauty impromptu and anew every time.
He who would write complicated poems about her.
Who would never agree that she was 'just normal'.
Who saw her eyebrows,
pain of waking up in the mornings,
hatred for colleagues,
love for knowledge
and choco-walnut brownies.
Who would constantly remind her
that full-names are always more beautiful
and life is so much more about now and ahead
rather than gone by's.
And when he wasn't around
she strew his clothes and slept.
Tried to smell him in his left over tooth brush.
Touched her eyebrows while looking at the mirror.
abstract modern art
and football nothing made sense.
And she later got to know
he saw Seinfeld and could never laugh.
Read the same books again and again
till they felt meaningless.
Saw reruns of Liverpool getting thrashed
and felt at ease.
Look at her photographs
and caress the eyebrows.
it was still about
the mundane things
like his aftershave,
her small palms,
going through unread books in stores,
laughing madly at powerfully poor jokes,
sleeping on shoulders,
listening to heartbeats
and Jim Morrison.
And adding on to their continued story.
Like this one...
After twenty years
two brash teenagers
almost two hundred common poems
breakfasts on bed
intentional sick leaves
unslept nights filled with talks
and sometimes tears
and running towards each other
They still write
their book of life.