I made love to an Indian poet in Istanbul

 I made love to an Indian poet in Istanbul,

His words were like shadows, soft and full.

The Bosphorus split, its waters aglow,

Bleeding ferries and ghosts where no winds blow.

His face broke in the neon’s cruel decay,

like The Weeknd on a Monday, lost halfway.

His prayers hung heavy, too sharp to speak,

my hands burned through the silence he’d keep.

I drank rakia once, or maybe it was a lie,

its burn slid down like a fractured goodbye.

The glass hummed low, a whisper, a sigh,

its weight like a promise you never let fly.

You stood there silent, your hands at your side,

your words locked away, where regret likes to hide.

I waited for something, a vow, a thread,

but you gave me nothing—just silence instead.

The fire of the drink spoke louder than you.

Its warmth was a betrayal, and it burned something true.

I drank rakia once, or maybe just pain,

and it tasted like you, like love left in vain.