Turkish Moon

Published April 29, 2012 by largemargeuk

The moon is grey
and I can hear my own heels
clack on the stones.

I can’t grasp my keys
my fingers ar aching a swollen,
cold to the bone.

My breath fogs the side glass
shivering slightly as I nestle
into my seat.

The igntion whirrs a sputters
my fingers fumble the switch
for the heat.

I sleep alone each night
recalling his promise
through the black night.

made in that third floor hotel room
the Bosphorous shining
in the moonlight.

The promise to stay true
and raise our love up
to perfection.

and knowing knowing those words
were a cruel and delib’reate

But it wasn’t he who lied to me.
I was lied to by a Turkish moon.


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