my fingers are stained black from the ink in my pen, my darling pen which exploded on the plane from the air pressure drop, all these vertical miles above the ground. (we say miles out of written habit, but we think in kilometers, don’t we.) i say merci, teşekkür ederim, gracias and everything in between—everything but obrigado. oh obrigado, the elusive one, you will come, that i know; i have a few days to get to know you, to make you comfortable, to lure you in. we’ll make it in these hours. you’ll wait. i’ll see.