Cornflowers

I’ve always loved corners. It is inconspicuous and silent and there is tenderness in it.

You may have noticed this and this may precisely explain how we both ended up in this wooden cafe. The rain drizzled and pelted and I noticed your side glances. You wanted to tell me something, I’m aware, but I do not want to initiate the conversation. Somehow, I feel safe and warm in not knowing how things stand between you and I, in days that should not have been but, well, have been.

Wild orchids, you told me, are ethereal. It blooms for approximately six weeks, gracing this Earth – no matter how wicked and whimsical – with its elegant symmetry. It rivals asphodels, you said, and if planted in the underworld, all sunken places in the nether regions would sunk no more.

You moved close and stretched your arm until, one second after the other, it rested on my shoulder. I let my head fall on your chest and listened to that metrical batter that makes this life bearable. You held me close and, at that moment, I was confident that all my pieces – even the most broken ones – would remain intact.

I drew a deep breath and told you, casually, that the Turkish word for rain is yağmur. You looked out the window and, in your low, husky voice, whispered: “Yaah-moore.”

Poetic, isn’t it? I asked. Yağmur. Yaaah-moore.

You agreed, and you may be right but in that corner in the wooden cafe, in the span we were together, you outlasted all the rains and good writings and, to me, became the sestina of everything that dances and dazzles.

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