He has been stretched with all his intricate edges.
His skin is no longer fit, his hair is no longer short,his hands  are no longer tucked in pockets and warmth. He has been exposed to icy flakes that stir goosebumps, to shocks that electrocute hair follicles, to knives that lay dormant in pockets, waiting for the next rendezvous with inexperienced hands.
He has been stretched with all his intricate, virtual edges. His eyes have learned to absorb more daylight – light that keeps him up in a maze at night in belief that sleep would soon knock on the door he has locked and casually stride in through the wooden plates he has placed. His ears have elongated the tunnels through which the voices pass, in hope that the distance would only cause the voices’ loss along the way. His tongue, stretched too, has been swallowed and digested by acids and sourness – acids that are not his and a sourness that has dissipated into his skin and built up inside the membranes of his body.
He has been stretched. He has wrapped his elongated arms around his frail body multiple times, creating a shield of flesh and bones. He has spread his mind as a carpet and has walked on thoughts and feelings. He has extended his vision farther than your horizons and their ambitions. He has shed his skin and lit it up multiple times. He has expanded his heart, emptied it from all remains, and filled it with pure water – water that is read to morph its way through endless tunnels and hallways.
It has been a stretched year – a year of expansions and contractions, a year of morphology, a year of changes – and he has embraced it to the fullest.

Winter Deaths


A process where a living person- breathing, moving, blinking etc – becomes still in fractions of seconds. The heart stops. The pulse dies. Slowly, colors leave the body. They dance back into the air, absorbed by the sun, swept by the wind. Tombs are made to collect as much of the colors as possible. Those which escape become rainbows that bring joy to the living, who look in awe at light reflections they will someday be a part of . We’ll all dissolve at some point and with us we’ll take others’ colors. Life is all connected in an intricate web.

When the cold steals the heat off my fingers to warm itself up,I remember your solid, blue fingers folded on your stomach as you lay in that coffin. I’ve never shivered from the cold. It was always remembering your scene that sent chills to my heart. I hate winter for that very reason : that it reminds me of your blankets and boiling coffee and lost, blurry yesterdays that I can’t seem to put my hands on anymore. I forgot the sound of your voice – all the screaming that happened wiped it off my memory. But I do remember the story you’ve told me about that time you almost died while climbing that hill to work. Or the one about how she used to write you poetry on her father’s newspapers, and secretly give them to the mailman to send them to you. It’s a shame that she was killed after being caught giving the mailman those letters on a stormy January afternoon. They thought she was having an affair with him.

And I remember the poem you told me you wrote her. You’ve always recited it by heart. I wish she had had the chance to hear it.

There are no real words to describe death – be it death of people, events or experiences. Someone, or something, just disappears. All what’s left are videos constantly pressed on play-back.