The Great Unlearning
By L. K.
A cafe's clock leans into closing time,
and a soft snow sequence of a walk home ensues.
A hesitant hand.
A head tilt.
A street lamb and bubblegum conversation.
Two pairs of lips and the good humor to ask
them where they think they're going.
A craned neck in all of its awkward glory:
This
is the great unlearning.
Watch
as my body un-teaches its hips
the sway your hands would ripple
through them.
Watch
as I untame myself into
a hurricane on a Thursday night.
All that is left of you
is the muscle memory of my hunger.
Your name
is still etched onto my tongue
as it escapes through the lips into a quick breath,
almost finding its way near the ear of someone who is
not you.
Watch
as I pour love into my own bones for months before
allowing myself to indulge on devouring warmth on a cold night,
to not be afraid of new skin,
of good hunger,
of a sky scattered in between bedsheets and a taxi seat,
because I made it home before the sun rose,
before my heart opened,
before anyone knew
I had ever
been gone.
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L. K. was born and raised in Prishtina, Kosova. He's 100% Albanian, yet was born in a refugee camp in Turkey. When he was 18, a scholarship brought him back to Istanbul, where he studies psychology and is a freelance writer and translator. In between travelling and poetry and multiple part-time jobs, he hopes to one day Get His Shit Together. He mainly sticks to spoken word poetry. Or at least that's what he calls it. His friends refer to it as “screaming about his feelings.”
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