The Theorem Of Loneliness

Night is a dress made of your skin
which touches to your loneliness
with desolate stars,
A wet story
which missings is told
Night is a whore
made of my grandmother's eyes
which is shaped
with transparent stories.
Night is a bottomless
which moon rises in.
An but, what about us?
Were we children, what do you think?
was glittern in my eyes, seven years old?
Maybe that was an ugly smiling
which is hidden behind of our glasses?
when we were connetcting love words silently
in the coldness of your eyes?
And maybe it was a known film poster
which was fallen down
to the Streets of Beyoglu.
There is a footstep of a known feeling
on the calm lips
which miss make love.
Your voice's excellence was so far away
At each time when we made love
in the silence of the night
Your breasts which were got pale,
Defy to the missing songs
with the rancor of untouched.
Or were they also children
who are 7 years old?

Cem K.