Balcony, Istanbul

In the beginning,

the balcony was a ribbon of gold

the city spilling open beneath me,

the call to prayer curling through the air

like a soft hand on my shoulder.

Nilufer beside me,

her laughter fizzing louder than our beers,

the night warm with promise.

--

Days alone were different.

While she worked,

I leaned over the railing,

watching ferries cut the Bosporus

into silver ribbons.

Street vendors shouted below,

a spice wind drifting upward,

and even in my loneliness,

I felt folded into the city

as if it knew me,

kept me.

--

Now, the balcony lives in memory.

I can still hear the slow rise of voices

from the mosque,

still taste the salt and hops,

still feel the ache of being

both full and hollow

in the same breath.

It was my anchor,

my window,

my quiet confession to a city

that will always keep a piece of me

but never really know my name.