turkish coffee – a poem

We ate simits covered in olive spread, thin little bagels so you don’t get schmutz on your face. After, we drank Turkish coffees strong like a shot. We read each other’s fortunes from the coffee grounds letting the spirit move through us. We saw rivers flowing in ravines and raccoons on mountains and energy leaving out of ourselves and cleaning up the places that haven’t been touched in awhile, the dust settled deep, and releasing and shifting at a cellular level and geckos navigating through clear paths while our inner fires burn bright and the crossroads between choosing one path and going down all the paths.

We received our messages with our napkins crumpled by our sides, the sesame seeds from the borek stuck to the edge of the plate while the ladies in the gray hijabs left their glass tea cups long forgotten. 

We let the afternoon run away from us as if we were never chasing it, lost in our interpretations of the future and present.

We are storytellers and we have more to say than being a puppet on stage. We have more hopes and dreams than talking about our hair and nails and what dates we went on this week. We came here for a purpose and we don’t seek validation externally. We are more concerned with conscious connection and less about acquiring more men than we can count. We know what we want and we’re not afraid to say it. We have insecurities but we’re not afraid to hide them. We long for connection so we’re not afraid to share it.

We don’t waste our time with the fake bullshit.

We rise up. 

We leave our thumbprint on whatever we touch.


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