mornings when you haven’t left the halos of the night.
i wrongly believe that there should be an ease to learning this language because it is, presumably, in my blood. yet a genetic heritage does not in any way grant me preferential treatment. memories of youth spent by the water with an esmer kız painting my nails in gunky coats of red might have a better chance at improving my abilities to agglutinate. this blood means nothing but that i cannot stand the cold.
***
there are two women in the opposite building across the courtyard. the first draws the curtains in a hurry, blocking the sun. the second applies make-up by the glass door, where the light hits her features with a glow.
i look at my fingers. i am not using them as i normally would. my fingers press upon squares when they should draw symbols instead. there was a time when i used to do this in a daze, eyes half-closed in the darkness with a cigarette burning alongside an incense stick. now we celebrate three years of mirrors to offset a habit that no longer exists.
i move my fingers to the right where i find a velvet pouch i haven’t seen in a while. i remember the cards. i shuffle through the deck and pick one at random. i slide it out, my eyes on the courtyard where the women used to be. i flip it over. the magician. the magician with a lemniscate above his head, a fountain pen in his right hand, a pocket watch, a jar, and a pistol before him.
i cast away the words. i offer melodies to our wires as they intertwine and test our patience. this place is not for us, we know. yet here we are, where the tree has lost its leaves in the cold, where the sun still fools us into summoning better days.