I have been deaf, and I have been raised deaf. It's true. I remember once, before I saw you, I stood in a boulevard. And tried to hear the rustling of the leaves, the music of the birds, and the language of the gravel under each and every one of my steps. I tried hearing the sound of the air as it tangled my hair, and pushed the course of the grass. I couldn't, obviously. I couldn't at all.
Five days after that day, we began spending our leisure together (everyday). We ate in the strangest diners, we ran around Bursa as if we had all the capabilities and freedoms of the world, and with every second, my love for your love grew. With every second, I smiled and I laughed and I conquered the world and you were my conquerer. And as each second grew, I swear I could hear the sound of air tangling my hair, the language of the gravel, the music of the birds, and the rustlings of the leaves. I swear I could hear the melody of your laughter, and the rays of this sun as it expelled through your hair.
I swear you drummed my silent heart to life, and I am no longer deaf. I can hear the music remedied by love. I can listen to the harmony of the billions of glistening raindrops, and I could've sworn I could hear your lashes move.
Cennet you gave me a sense without applying it. You gave me a world within a world. You brought me to the highest of cliffs, above all the troubles in the world, because nothing mattered but the sound of your laugh, and I swear I could hear it.
Cennet, I will never fathom the complexity of love, but within it's entanglement— with you, I will always listen to the grass, the leaves, the air and the gravel.
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