Talented people pen a letter to share the love of that thing they are passionate about. The world needs more love and more love letters.
Dear Love,

I woke up, you are in my mind. I forgot during breakfast but each time I took a sip from my tea, I remembered again; long before that innocent night, when I was purifying myself, being naked under hot water made me think of you. I had you in one part of my mind and your smell in another part. Welcome. Who were you? Which flower were you, which one did you relished?  You were the one which you, your own, smelled. What am I going to do with myself - with myself who have known you?

She used to love me starting from my shoulders, from my shoulders, then, my hands. It was my hands who were crying at the end, it was the smell of longings. Wish we wake up to a beautiful morning.

Pardon me, who were you? Your substance is in the smell brought by a wind.

Love! I need you. I am sick. It’s not me but my heart. It’s your brain that keeps my heart alive. My brain is in coma. Be a remedy for my soul before my death occurs. Let your breath bundles me up, and your body bundles my substance, your soul bundles my body up. Love! I need you! You filled the space which was resultant of your absence. This is an occupation that the history will never see again! I cannot sleep. Love! You need me.

Discharge the pain; discharge it one by one at each step.

Tell me, how are you? Free from the whirlpool of the streams, the waters are calm on the surface. I am walking towards the clouds.

I am the earth, sheer, essential. I soak all the existence as far as it comes from you, while I have laid no life, fallen no branch or known no skin. One day, when the rage of the split sky is quiet again, the rocks would crack; my longing would become ashes in the grave of my god. I would know the crack on the mirror of the rising day. Oh, of my heart…

Full moon is today. With the tenderness of a wild touch, its mind is united with life. The spell of the archaic word says that all that becomes connects to the one who makes with his own name; it’s up to you to find it.


Beauty was warm hands heating some cool places of you, in a moonlit night; some cool places of you or it was your skin that soaked my heat up and it was our gazes searching for the other; such as the glow of the moon light on the sea accompanies our nights, in its deep. It was beautiful. There was evening twilight in your taste.

I have been blinded by blood in absent scarlets, where is love in that? Hey, love! The dream of nights full of love, each one has fallen down, glittering brightly in the moss-bound cliché of the roots which permeated ironless, marbleless, baseless grave walls. Nights that resurrect… With my wisdom far from wornness, as much as the arbor allows, I have known that we are one. Because I believed, if only for a moment, in the fairytale of one for all, I stared at the sun that buries me in the night. I drank, licked the blood on your lips; didn’t I see that the moon light smiles in each statue which turned into an unexceptional stone made of cold, sticky, worse white marble.

Green and black, slippery and joyful; the revolution of archaic fears gave birth to a smell from the council of forests: Rotting is life, each drop of which falling among the leaves, reaching to the earth is blood, water and poison. Bite me purely with the teeth of a white, moist and slippery snake which glided after a pitch-black night, didn’t I see that the moon light smiles?

One goes on the road, one comes from the road, one chases love on that road, and one also runs away from that road with the smell of a moment; with the fear of beauties: it commands, stop! Until it stops with the tiring, tired faint of past; it freezes on the side, the passage of boats stand, shovels hover. The smell of airless home, curbsides on which lives are hidden; at its foot, the longing for grass grow on a corner; longing is imprisoned in a glance, didn’t I see that the moon light smiled in that whiteness!

Sleep. Stream of the most challenging rivers. You can wake up in its delta, you can be buried under the residue of dreams. It means falling in dream, it is the other sun that shines behind a mirror so that you would think it is moon light; white hole, white matter. Sleep.  It calls. Run. It is not the youth that ends but the hopes of the leaf, the branch, life’s resin that overflows from a crack in the overthrown trees. Sleep. The humus of fertile forests. You would imagine it’s only your voice that resists rotting. Rotting is life, the smell of blood smudged in your hands carries the pain to you. When you put the pain to sleep, the brain flows, falls apart through your fingers. A little blood is piled up in your palm and the linden-scented moon is reflected.  The moon. The being in your sleep. Whatever vengeance you harbor, it springs up whitely in your bed. This is the revenge of infidelity. Love is the sleep of the shroud bundled up. Wake up! Hope to sober up from the mornings bathed in water. Let your hungover body gleam. Go. Let the road bring you to my grave. Stare at my stone without blinking so that it starts to moss, let my love leave chilly marks on your cheek. Let the vein in my temple beats in peace on each and every full moon. Whichever age’s call it is, I promise that I will follow it. Wait for me in the poison that leaks from the most secret wound in your skin. I lay down on that delta with a jot of your poison. The pain of wrecked ships, of lost lands, of missing lives, of souls sacrificed for pleasure is a cool breeze on my forehead. This touch is the contact of the longing in which the rose in my grave is rooted, it is the need that leaks from your breath. Come, lay beside me, sleep cuddling the shroud of time. Forget. Forgetting is the running of the myths gathered from pain. Sleeping is resurrection. Didn’t I see you smile!

Teeth that gleam in the middle of a smiling face with their dimmed eyes. It is the lip of immobility that speaks, it is the fossilized words of love. The absence in my mirror is due to the vanishing of my light; look carefully, the secret behind you is blood. You will see the fact that you are a gem that is whiter than your brain. It is just a pitch-black matter of time that is about to rot; touching you is Mesapotamia; it is as intimate as the rock from which the earth comes. Whenever two rivers meet the gulf with thunderbolts, your breath is as volatile as ether when it passes through my breath, witnesses become speechless: Earth and Sky, only if these two gods both forget about the other then the holly water freezes in the well. The desert understands. These bodies have melded into sand ages ago. Who would know which grain, dust, piece, jot, atom belongs to whom. Here, I; there, you who crossed the mountains! What difference does it make, yours or mine; be born Enkidu out of your sorrow, out of Gılgamesh’s saliva. Shout towards mountains! Both who gave birth and who is born are from you.

Yesterday, it has been precisely hundred years. I have been waiting your breath for one century to be born again. I have become a taintless breeze from the peaks of the high merely for that; there is a shiver over my nape. I have become warmer. I have given birth.

I slept. I woke up.

Don’t forget to be loved.



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