YARADANDAN DİLE

Love here is like a faulty lighter: it sparks, burns your fingers, but you still feel compelled to click it again. It flares up and then dies down, but the smell of the burnt past lingers for a long time. Between "I'm sorry" and "I couldn't forget" lies the entire chemistry of dependent feelings: it hurts, it's difficult, but without it, it's as if there's nothing to breathe. It sounds like a prayer, set to a dance beat - the same word over and over again, as if salvation depends on it. This isn't about reason or logic: my heart just stubbornly refuses to close, even though it's long overdue. And who knows, maybe that's his true faith.