s.constantina

(transcribed)

I am in Constantinople, my father's city. I sit on the balcony of my neighbor and drink in the night. The sights in the distance, across the river, are lighted with a grace that is not near plain, and still, watching it makes me feel like I and everything are a bonded sort of simple. I write. It is dark, too dark to write, but I brave shadow past and write. It is one of the few times I have successfully pierced the likeness of a personal barrier. I'm a little proud.

I watch the city, surrounded by kind noise. Music plays, I watch. Sudden shouts of police sirens and and the faraway hum of someplace's live music, likely a restaurant, keep their hands on my shoulders lightly enough for me to ignore them completely. Of course, I hear the people speak in a language I can't understand. I don't listen; my heart hears Croquis's tasteful jukebox instead.

The lights show me the beau of Constantine's galaxy. In the distance I can identify the places I visited not long ago. On the left-most is Topkapi Palace, dimmer than the rest but still vibrant with its overwhelming expanse of walls. Next to it is Hagia Sofia, dim as its nearby sister, and in the middle of the five most loudly identifiable landmarks is Sultanahmet Mosque. It is the brightest and by far the most beautiful, at least to the night. Then lay Sulemaniye Mosque, garden replete, and the Galata Tower on my side of the river. I met with it merely hours ago.

I feel a slip of horror when a droplet of moisture hits my bare forearm. I look up at the sky, fuzzily blanketed with a cloud. Courage sits in me; I crave this moment too much to stop writing and head inside, even if the water threatens to pour; I will not let it go. With a strange surety, I shift the muscles in my hand only to move a pen, and my neck to crane it up at the covered stars and nebulae calling to me from beyond this massive cloud. I am blessed, and the dense cloud moves past me.

I pause in writing. The sun is coming closer to me, to the land. It is getting harder and harder to barely identify the words I'm writing down in this silly notebook. Then, my serenity is interrupted by a calm bang of which I cannot tell what side of the river it has come from. It is a firework. Fireworks. They shoot up into the short sky for a couple of moments before fading away, with the coupling of delighted cheers, hard to hear. I watch them too before shifting my focus back to my scribbles.

I have more to write, but the lady, the mother, calls me inside. We will enter the city again soon. My mind spins. I have lots to say to wretched graphed paper. I stay quiet too often.

I breathe into my heart the lights and wish I could write poetry. I won't. I stop the music. I only hear the city, now.