I miss you.

You are how many miles away from me now, Nur? 1,500? 2,000? Well, you�ll be back on Wednesday. I miss you though. I can always look towards the place that you are, and let my mind seek a way towards you. So, I look east-south-east, about 118 degrees on the compass. I send my eye through my bedside bookcase, between the Alexander Text edition of Shakespeare (a 1986 edition) and the Lysistrata of Aristophanes. My eye goes though the wall, past the pine tree and over the owl sanctuary next door. I travel down our valley, where the slightest noise is echoed back and forth by the trees, where foxes yowl at night. I gather these images, these sounds, the warm scent of the earth lazily uncoiling from its winter bed, to bring to you. I dash down the road now, my speed increasing. I leap over Balmore and see the bare lights of my home town, then leave them behind, mere embers. Now I am flying, flying, flying, crossing Berkshire, then Surrey, then into Sussex. Now I leap into the Channel at Hastings and wade over to France. I bound over the Alps, skirt Switzerland and Italy. Next, I glide across the Adriatic, then float silently above Croatia, Bosnia and Serbia, looking down into a darkness broken only by a few lights here and there. Bulgaria comes, and I hear only a few voices from below, the sound of a car on a late night road, a horse calling in a field. But now I can see but destination: Trakya, ancient Thrace, and then Istanbul. I glide over Edirne, then follow the contours of the Marmara, watching fishing boats tilt, rise, tilt, fall, tilt again and again as the gentle waves carry them. Nearing my goal, I see that the land is cold beneath me: You have had much ice and snow this week. There are more and more ships below me, all coming to congregate where Aya Sofya, the greatest building on Earth, guards the passageway to the Bosphoros. Then, there She is, The City, blaring light skywards, its wondrous towers, its secret roads, its joy and its sorrow, its wildness and augustness. Now I turn, I dive and land in some dark road and search for you from door to door, alleyway by alleyway, until finally I find you in an apartment. You are worn out, you are sleeping: And in your sleep, I plant a kiss on your lips, I lay a rose in your heart, and I whisper all that I have seen as I journeyed toward you. Then I quietly, tenderly close the door, look towards the sky, and find myself back here, writing this. Yet still, my heart stays next to yours.
I�ll see you on Wednesday evening, darling.