Dust coats a globe
long left un-spinned
thick lairs of neglect
mirrored also within.

High on a shelf
surrounded by books
I can spot Türkiye
with only a quick look.

She is there, yanno,
she who holds my
heart in her hands
6000 miles away in
a whole different land.

As I dust off the layer
of neglect I think back
to how it felt to kiss
her neck.

I close my eyes and give
it a spin to make sure
it still works (and take
my mind of how I was
such a ****.)

Like the globe I didn't
take the best care of
her. I didn't listen
to what it was she
preferred.

Now, I'm here with my
books, my quills and
my dusty, barely
spinning worlds. Alone
writing bad poetry and
missing that special
girl.