My migration is to myself, my way to myself. I must close my words to others, my eyes. If I give it to you, will you dry my secrets in the sun?
It's a pity that there are eyes on your street that pass by without looking at you. If they knew you, if they knew you, if they snuggled into your dry branches. Your branches are dry. I realized this one morning when I was getting rid of myself. That's when I realized that autumn was coming. That's how you are. You talk in secret. You take care of yourself. As soon as we looked, a smoke-colored cat came between us. The cat has no name. Just as I can't give you a name, I can't give him a name either. Unique, nameless. I'm jealous of the conversation between you, what do you talk about for hours like that, my dear, looking and smelling? You sleep together, too. We can't do it alone with you, sleep. If we do that too, do you think I'll be counted from the street? Do I get away from the limitations of my mind, from my peripheries?
You are outside, I am inside. We both have dry branches, you have no leaves, and I have hair. But you are more courageous than me, you spread your bare branches, your cracked roots, you open your body in public. What about me? Can I do the same while admiring your courage? I shut up and press my lips to the glass. The walls of the house are expanding. I'm getting lighter, you're smiling. The distance between us is narrowing, we are lost.
No one kisses on your street anymore, it's a pity. The lovers who lean on you and whisper words of love are missing. The universe hides the sound. Whispers remain, voices, laughter… Maybe the lovers who were holding hands on his street broke up. The magic of the moments when they laughed together is already broken. Maybe his feelings turned into other feelings. Do you think the universe has separated their voices? Has it transformed it into other sounds? Is love carried to eternity with sound? Do you think his voice and my voice hang in the same place? Even if we are apart, are we together forever?
It snowed again today. When I look at you in the warmth of my room, the snow becomes beautiful. Are you beautifying the wife? Do you miss the warmth of spring? Are your branches shivering from the cold? Are you waiting for the kids to play snowballs? Would you like a snowman with you? Do you hear my voice or do you hibernate too? Shh wake up, it's snowing! Birds are chirping on the branches.
You are outside, I am inside. Inside there is the smell of coffee, the smell of washed laundry, boiled cauliflower and garlic. Things are talking. The writing desk whines, the chair snores, the notebook whispers. I'm relocating my writing desk. I move the seat from right to left. I cross out what I wrote in the notebook. I write a new word: the sun. That's when I decide to wash the curtains. Detergent is finished, I make a note on the shopping list to buy natural lavender soap detergent. I realize that I haven't had my coffee and regret it. I stare into the mirror searching for the hidden cause of my absentmindedness. I am looking for myself. I'm out of place. I see other faces in my own face. The faces I've encountered all week pour out of my eyes into the mirror. One smiles silently, one helplessly, another arrogant, another sad. Everyone is eager to open their story. Languages to be opened if I ask. I'm not asking. I collect words. My migration to myself, my way to myself. I must close my words to others, my eyes. If I give it to you, will you dry my secrets in the sun? If I whisper, would you let those stories flow to the street? Will you melt the sad smiles in the snow? Would you multiply the joy if I keep my gaze on you? Do you make these sleepwalking faces sleep in your branches? I'm calling you. Hey, look at me! You won't get lost in me, don't hide yourself.
Anyway, forget what I told you. Do you have any memory? Do you remember the dreams you had? Do you count the joyful winter sunny days? Will you testify to the history of the street? Whose street was whose voice, who loved whom so much, who hid from whom, do you know? When did thieves haunt kisses, when was it forbidden to laugh without hope? How was the smell of the crowd? Who would sing those songs shouting? When did the roar of cowardly men begin? When were the squares and streets empty? In what interval did we lose the words of our favorite poets? When did we forget to say a sentence that belongs to us, even if it is absurd? When did we let ourselves go? When did we leave? When? When? I'm telling you, do you really have a memory? That's how you are. You talk secretly. You take care of yourself. The snow settled, I washed my face. I made another coffee. I look at you, there is snow on your branches. You're not cold, are you?
Gülden Ateş
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