This is love


I had to stop painting my piano fingers

the next day they’d be stained acrylic, or worse, ink.

Instead with clear inked nails I sit comforted 

by the nonstop clickclickclick of keys — well, your keys

I always think too loud to type.


moonchild— I’m supposed to be:

streaked with lightning, 

sheltered by the bus stop in memories of spring 

days with clothes sticking wet

and a plethora of me too’s.


you don’t like the cold, and me, well, I hate it less than you do,

but I think we both don’t mind it

when we are fuzzy with wine and good company,

questioning love and death and what a kiss is

I feel such a fire inside, the breeze can’t cut me.


I like being on buses with you

because we’ve been on so many

and I’ve never been bored even when you easily slip into sleep.

 I can watch the sky slip by, until the moon leaves me 

  when we get there we will only be bathed in light.


I can’t sleep sometimes

homesick for a home that’s not a place

for words not laced with plastic kindness

you call asking about my insomnia, if I'm eating 

my mouth’s bittersweet after each talk to you later.


you mock me for liking lollipops

but I know you would buy me a boxful if I ran out.

I hate the waiting game that our lives have become

until everythingoes and comes back and we

always yearn the taste of the ocean.


there is a to-be-broken ashtray sitting on my shelf

in all its smugness, expectant.

every time we make eye contact I make an excuse

wait a bit more I say, making tea for us

my fairy lights flicker with fatigue.


This is the third set of lights I’ve bought

already they’re counting the days till their deathbed

but the sky tastes divine 

under stars and swirling silvers

and I wouldn’t have it otherwise.

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Cagla Sokullu

© 2020 by Cagla Sokullu

HeavyHeart Art&Poetry


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