The first letter is “-” by Habil Yashar

“-” — the killer of the dreams of my hopeful youth. The deadliest of snakes that turned the sweetest moments of my life into pain. The merciless lover whose first letter in the alphabet reminds me most of you, “-”. Whatever I say will never be enough for you, you merciless, merciless one.
No, perhaps you will never read what I write to you throughout a lifetime, my grievance-filled story. Or you will live unaware of my existence, unaware of my writings. I think I will never even cross your mind, because I know your character well. Even if I shout, you won’t hear; if I write, you won’t read; if I cry, you won’t feel it; if I die, you won’t mourn. I know all of this is worthless to you because you are too selfish to understand the value of those who value you. Seven years ago, you were the same, and you have remained so — I pity the person who calls you their spouse (even if you were a rival). Or maybe I am mistaken; perhaps that one is even more selfish than you, and you were just someone who had to attend their celebrations. Many assumptions can be made, but one truth remains: you are someone’s wife, someone’s woman. I can only wish you happiness and nothing else. I was created for applause, not curses; that is all you can expect from me.
“-” — I know you won’t read my words (but remember, I am a writer, the author of my sorrows. Even though I survived without you, don’t think I could live without writing. In life, my most reliable friend is inspiration, because it walks with me through joy and sorrow, never abandoning me, never leaving my side). Even if you don’t read, thousands, perhaps millions, will read my writings because everyone will find themselves in them. Perhaps many will write the first letter of their unfaithful lover instead of your first letter, “-”. Only you will remain unaware. Strange, isn’t it? After all, once you were my first reader of everything I wrote, even though you didn’t read newspapers regularly, you followed literary publications for me (despite studying philology yourself. I must admit — you were excellent, truly excellent. When my classmates envied your diligence, I was burning with desire to be with you). For the first time, you attended the Writers’ Union because of me, because it was the presentation of my second book, Love Created Me. Among all those prominent writers, poets, relatives, and friends, my eyes searched only for you; I was anxious just because of you. Thankfully, I wasn’t entirely powerless that day. I received both criticism and praise. Maybe you felt proud too, as it was your lover’s book being presented. Despite keeping you waiting every day, I was a lover who never wanted to be apart from you. I think I praised myself a bit while complaining about you. It didn’t turn out well. Or maybe I have become selfish over the years. No, that’s impossible, because a poet can never be selfish, no matter what anyone says.
Anyway, let me not stray from your atmosphere. In any case, your aura is undeniably beautiful. Your presence gave me inspiration and made me think deeply. But in the end, nothing can bring you back. You are who you are. I can only keep you alive in my writings, and I believe you will live there forever. Because a part of you is in everything, and everything that has you is beautiful and unique. No one but a great God knows when I will write my “masterpiece” about you, and no one else can know…
The first letter “-”, now I don’t know where you are. I’ve heard a little here and there. I heard you are married, have a daughter, and don’t work (unfortunately, despite all your education, you are unemployed. Maybe your spouse doesn’t want you to work, or maybe you don’t need to. Many things can be thought, but the result is — you are unemployed). Are you happy, or not? Whatever you are, in life, everything is relative, as Einstein said.
The first letter “-” — seven years have passed. You think seven years is nothing; the elders say it is a lifetime for a man. Many things have happened in my life — successes, losses. Most importantly, I lost you, and after that, what else can I lose? Nothing will ever matter next to your absence. I am preparing for the publication of my third book; I cannot imagine holding the presentation without you. You wouldn’t believe what I go through while writing. I don’t write with a pen; I write with my blood instead of ink. Nowadays, many are accustomed to writing on a computer, but we writers must adapt (though, for me, writing by hand is more beautiful). Oh, you, the cause of my broken-winged life. Maybe someone will tell you to come to the presentation, or maybe in your dream, someone will inform you about the place and date. Who knows what will happen, what will be lived. But I know one thing: if it happens, nothing will be the same in my life. My life will change direction by 180 degrees. If only you come… My heart will think of you as it did seven years ago, my eyes will search for you. You, you, you, my lover whose first letter is “-”. Even from your shadow, I would recognize your presence, your hair’s scent will reveal you… Ah, dreams, if only they were real, just real.
The first letter “-”, finally, I remind you of two lines from a poem I wrote for you seven years ago, and I will make sure you remember it for a lifetime:
Whether you want me or not,
You will be mine in my poems.
Yes, my lover, you will be mine. Even if I never unite with you physically, you are eternally mine in spirit, and you will remain mine. No one can take this spirit from me, not even death itself. I am bound to you with all my soul; you are an invisible part of me. With all my selves, you are mine, you are mine…
Habil Yashar