nablopomo

nablopomo

Back in ’94...

We walked, struck like the lines of your face, through istanbul, the note that traced my steps from where we met, and back, because I ran here to get lost. If I couldn’t find myself all alone, I’d be no good if I ever came home, again. We traipsed through the aisles of a grand, grand bazaar, rows of turmeric in a myrrh colored haze, gilded daggers poised on terra cotta plates, the tar and the smoke of a love full of hate; tip-toe bartering for gifts from the magus, dropping shelled peas in a bowl, for his golden girl. Who said when, I don’t remember how. It could have been me in a fistful of panic, it might have been you in a stormy road rage, but now’s a little too little and a lot too late, a week’s too soon and the day wouldn’t wait for words, like ivory keys. You changed the lock without my side of the story.

I took the photos that her father never saw, catching her changing clothes with batted lashes batting, stolen tick tocks like the h from the hour, crossing lines never drawn til we reached cadence. Hands in my hair and fingers interlaced, a tap on the shoulder and we made our play until last call. I brought a pair of wheels on this solitary travel. The cold didn’t bring my discontent, the wind didn’t knock me down. The miles never added up to near enough distance, the train tracks never felt quite so long.

Here is where I dropped my note in a bottle, henna letters mixed with seven lucky numbers that I’d never dial. When I got back she wouldn’t look me in the eye. I watched her walk off, and I knew not to linger. 'You leave, you lose.' I saw her years later from the street, stateside, laughing with someone who was a little bit older, wearing cowboy boots at the end of a regional fad. But then again, so was I. Who said when, I don’t remember, now.