Some say code is poetry, but for me, poetry is code.

With these codes, I’ve been cheating the clear blue sky and flower on the window facing my neighborhood. I’ve been singing my betrayal and cover it as if it is only lines of Icelandic. I’ve been writing love letters to the past and the blur of future. I’ve been spilling my dreams of Socotra and its dragon’s blood trees and the rest of the world, including Turkey.

With these codes, I’ve been trying to tell you something.

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Morning comes without coffee this month

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Ramadhan comes back each year while life rolls. Things change, like the distance between me and my family: my home. Like how I do the hours-countdown to sunset. Some other things just stay the same, like the soothing-Arabian-like TV commercial jingles. Like how the trees rhyme.

Ramadhan for me is an annual special guest. It is a harmony; a holy remedy; an eternal childhood memory.

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Hey, A! :)

This is the city where M lives. He lives there without telling me anything, but I got it, because I already tried to find him in the city where we used to live ten years ago. He didn’t run and hide and I didn’t hide and seek. We just lived the slow motion of fast forwarded different videos in exactly the same player and exactly the same duration. He moved and I stayed. Footsteps flipped and flopped. He clicked and I clicked. The clock ticked and tocked.

I half thought about M for a half of duration of my half fast forwarded life.

This is the city where M lives. We didn’t meet. We were two dots of the millions ones, moving, and trying to get into the tube on time.

I envy people who travel a lot; as if they had wings.