By Nida Işık
I am looking for a lover who has nothing to offer me. I am looking for a lover for whom I am not looking, a lover whom I would not even sit in the same table for an impassionate acquis. I am looking for a lover who would not direct me his wonders to reach what's beneath my skin, a lover I would masturbate with but never make love to. I am looking for a lover who was five feet apart on the seventh day God created the world, a lover who is not a poet, or else, has no delicacy in his face. I am looking for a lover who is light in the head, light in the heart, light in dignity. I am looking for a lover who is lighter than me, only to make me even lighter than I could ever be. I am looking for a lover that I do not have to love, a lover whose ashes I am never to dance on, because he will not be burned with the cravings of the heart. He will be tuned into his own voice, and we will never be in same key strumming our desires. A lover who will never rip my soul to tear my skin apart, likewise, his soul will never reach the surface to touch mine.
I want a lover with an ugly face, as ugly as death itself, so I will bear the end without pain, or pleasure, like black carnations restlessly carried to a dead woman's bed.
I am hungry for my lover’s time and his body. My hunger bears many witnesses that is not the experience of one but extends to many. My lover and I, and he has no joy in his eyes, we are not the fugitives of being, united by the hand of God, but only the refugees of time. So tired and so weak, and within weakness, there is no salvation. I will never feel the warmth of the journeys I took on his skin, his routes will never take him to my cities. I will never peek through his curtains to watch him sin; he will never sleep my nights to see my dreams. If love is a fortunate intersection of bodies in a place far away from others, let us never be isolated from outsiders; let us wear our bodies to imaginary encounters, thankfully, we will never have to see each other naked.
My lover and I, we are not afraid of to be loved, we lack to desire to fall.
Oh, my lover, I love with a little care, I worry that he’ll leave.
"In the prison of the gifted I was friendly with the guards So I never had to witness What happens to the heart"
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