To the muse I have written about for five years

To the Gemini muse that I’ve written to for 5 years,

You’re undoubtedly still quite the charming man, incessantly inspiring my empty head to leak words I was too shy to admit. Because of you, many have called me a writer, when both you and I know that I am far off from that noble title.

 

I’ve written so much to the point that I wanted my words to come alive, and not just fabricate our make-believe rendezvous. I wanted all to be real; I wanted you here, in flesh and bones, to show everyone that this immaculate human is a kind, living, breathing thing.

 

I’ve dived into supernal worlds of what ifs, and you ceased to become just a writing aid; my love, I urged for you with haste, but what haste is that if it’s been five years, and not a shard of a word moved a cell in you.

 

Come and run your fingers through the endless pages of my pleas; oh how desperate I was, filling up journals and journals just imploring you to find me. I counted the days, ah so gullible; I’ve begged the earth to rewrite its fate for I swear you were meant for me.

 

Five years, you insensitive human. Five years and what they’d compliment on, thinking it’s just a heart dump is actual frantic calls, yet I would not lie, I’d still bust this spacious heart open and write until your unresponsive organ feels bad for me.

 

But until then, I’d like to inform you that I have found a new muse, and your services are not needed. (But God knows I would still rush into your arms lest you came).

Sonbahar

It’s mid April, and all I’ve engulfed were whirls of autumnal winds, winds so familiar yet out of place. This is not your season, yet somehow you still manage to storm the earth, one unexpected sandstorm at a time.

 

My readers know it: I’ve always sworn by autumn, and its painful gush against brick walls. My darling, let me have this. Allow me this spring, colorful still. I am yet to bear your azure skies.

Oh, April

A waft of feeling crept into the soft hues of April. Love, is that you again? I’d honor your heavy emotions in a painstaking embrace lest it led anywhere, but we both know they’re misplaced in this case. What do those feelings serve me; nothing but a severe heartburn. For I have admired the falsehood of you; don’t we writers do that too? We’re darn good storytellers, permitting the slightest of inspiration to fool you, and fool ourselves into believing our hyperbole is close to reality. But the problem is that: the reason behind those feelings is void. I am quick to fall in love, and in this case, my muse is someone I have never seen eye to eye. Oh Love, you gave me farfetched whims over a soul I glamorized in my head. And I keep writing to him like a fool every night, thinking words can force his innocent feet here. April, what have you done to my poor soul?

Aching pages

They say pain is the best virtue a writer could ever get out of life. With agony, come rain showers of heartfelt emotions, ready to ink blank sheets on a vagabond’s journal. The writer sways to somber melodies, fabricating and blossoming black roses in the gaps between his fingers, as he writes and jams his fingertips against the pen until he bleeds a dark prose.

 

And now the darkest shade of gray is present within his core, the only beam that interrupts his chain of thought is the harsh office lamp, glistening above his head. So there he was, alone in this world, suffering wrecked relationships, and the only companion he has to help him survive the lonesome night is a pen that swore to never leave his sight.

 

The written agony—unfelt and covert in an enclosed leather journal, pulsating harmoniously with his heartbeats—now testifies a point in time only his youth grieved. And it remains an unknown phase, up until a stranger finds the notebook—amid the debris—an ancient memory, craving to be read.

 

This virtue bestowed upon a forlorn writer not only beautifies his verses with monochromatic hues, but also carries the pain to the next writer. Now I grieve, and you grieve, and together we write our ache away.

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Ghostly visits

So I may have found a muse who’s been keeping me company. At first, his sight triggered a stormy rush of new words, causing my brittle soul to flush in reds and pinks. Every cell in me gradually softened, and my feet started tingling with inspiration to dance again.

 

All of a sudden, the typing on the keyboard would not end, interrupted by blushed smiles and sighs. I pause mid-writing to stare at the blank wall in front of me, and I look back to my notepad that’s mindlessly suffused with heart doodles all over your name.

 

And now this ceased to be just a writer’s companion on wordless nights because the heart is unfortunately entrapped. My muse, you’re too perilous for my frail being to handle. I am too scared to process the abrupt collision that is you. I know you’re supposed to pull me out of my miserable rut, to spur poems out of my mediocrity, but I am too fearful.

 

I am frightened by how swiftly I’ve gotten accustomed to your ghostly stops. I am overwhelmed by my sudden craze to pour more and more words to describe a beauty I have yet to see.

 

My muse, you do realize that there’s no face behind those emotions, right? So why on earth am I drawn to a human I have never met? Help my emptiness spill on my white canvasses, but when the duty is over, I beg you to leave. I fear I may have loved your company too much.

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A March Daffodil

I still treasure that delicate stare, gilded by the soft wrinkles, as they swim across the crowd looking for me. While all they spoke of was your chiseled torso, I adored the flowers meticulously growing out of your ribcage.

 

Flower child, your precious eyes reflected the Japanese blossoms prettier than a double-exposure portrait ever did. The gradient grays—masking the skies above your head—were swiftly tinted coral, as if your fingertips were fondling with the clouds.

 

At days, I want to keep you close to my heart, as I knew you were the cynosure of all earthly elements that attracted even the sunflowers thinking you were their radiant sun.

 

Oh my March daffodil, I inhaled your white petals as they announced the peak of spring; and suddenly, everything around me feels familiar and placid. Your subtle touch replaced my veins for stems; now my head gently rests in flowerbeds.

Beraber?

She always stares at him as if he was a season ready to set its sails. She felt too much toward him; she felt too much toward others. She was too fond of the steps he took to reach hers, always catching her breath over the sight of that meeting spot.

 

It must’ve been that same winter gust that forced their barefoot here, where she told him about how much she loathes the grays in the sky and the departure of the sun. He laughed and called her a sunflower.

 

Intricate details carved an importance on her life; too mindful she were of life and its hashed pages. She’s always loved silent lounges by a terrace overlooking the green meadows, where she’d never have to force a conversation, and she’d allow nature to speak to her.

 

He sat next to her on the terrace and handed her a dark chocolate bar. She read the label and smiled foolishly: “the 75% cocoa.” Those were the unimportant details she always urged the planet to remember.

 

Loving her was easy and simple: leaving a postcard on her vanity, plucking a basil aramato and putting it behind her ear, setting up a picnic even if it was in their backyard, or even remembering words from the language she loves the most.

 

 

She always looks at him as if he’s about to walk away, always feeling that her love could never make him stay. She looked at him one last time and uttered her final words:

 

Bebek.

“Efendim?”

Söyle: Beni seviyorsun?

“Her zaman.”

Ne kadar?

“Son derece, bebeğim.”

Beraber?

“Evet, sonsuza kadar beraber.”