The Great Unlearning

 By Lindon Krasniqi

A cafe's clock leans into closing time,

and a soft snow sequence of a walk home ensues.


A hesitant hand.

A head tilt.

A street lamb and bubblegum conversation.

Two pairs of lips and the good humor to ask

them where they think they're going.

A craned neck in all of its awkward glory:



is the great unlearning.



as my body un-teaches its hips

the sway your hands would ripple

through them.



as I untame myself into

a hurricane on a Thursday night.


All that is left of you

is the muscle memory of my hunger.


Your name

is still etched onto my tongue

as it escapes through the lips into a quick breath,

almost finding its way near the ear of someone who is

not you.



as I pour love into my own bones for months before

allowing myself to indulge on devouring warmth on a cold night,

to not be afraid of new skin,

of good hunger,

of a sky scattered in between bedsheets and a taxi seat,

because I made it home before the sun rose,

before my heart opened,

before anyone knew

I had ever

been gone.


Lindon Krasniqi was born and raised in Prishtina, Kosova. He's 100% Albanian, yet was born in a refugee camp in Turkey. When he was 18, a scholarship brought him back to Istanbul, where he studies psychology and is a freelance writer and translator. In between travelling and poetry and multiple part-time jobs, he hopes to one day Get His Shit Together. He mainly sticks to spoken word poetry. Or at least that's what he calls it. His friends refer to it as “screaming about his feelings.” He sometimes posts these feelings on