Mostar, this two-year affair has gotten too public, so it’s ending.
Mostar, sometimes you make me homesick and body-sick and I wish you were a stranger to me as much as I have been a stranger to you.
Mostar, I wish I could do more than buy, and beg, and curse in your tongue.
Mostar, I regret that your marijuana could not iron out my towering self-importance.
Mostar, I stooped to the forty-ninth kilo in stomaching your diet of greasy potatoes.
Mostar, if you charge me in Euros, I will not pay.
Mostar, I’m glad that your stares did the ironing.
Mostar, our time together has made me really indifferent as to whether it’s UNESCO protected or not.
Mostar, I’m also sick of the word ‘war’.
Mostar, I’m embracing the paranoia of your umbrellas, sauna-hot lounges and pharmacies on every bloody block.
Mostar, I wish I knew what you’d say when I’d walk by and you’d giggle or spit.
Mostar, sometimes your town squares smell of festering poverty and marble-paved wealth all at once.
Mostar, sometimes you town squares sound like welcome wood-fires and mountain breezes all at once.
Mostar, I’m happy that I saw the world throb all of a sudden, animated by the lights that douse the night in brain-grey, at six-past-curfew.
Mostar, I appreciate how your hills explode with apricity and cypresses, in vertical beams of gold and green, come spring.
Mostar, it took some time for me to be O.K. with your defiance towards minimalist Ikea-engineered interiors.
Mostar, I can’t say as to whether I support The War on Turbo-Folk or not.
Mostar, your lamp-posts rustle with obituaries.
Mostar, now how much are you willing to forget?
Mostar, construction is always rippling in my coffee.
Mostar, is it the bullet holes? Are you insecure?
Mostar, I think you can buy something like Clearasil from DM, only stamped over with fat German script and class-statements.
Mostar, once I saw you throw a tantrum.
Mostar, I saw young rage ignite old tyranny in the cheering theatre of the street.
Mostar, I just ran with the crowd.
Mostar, what took you so long to react? Did you want to tear-gas us all?
Mostar, were you disappointed when the rapt frenzy of that day petered out into a lone old crank in Spanish Square only two weeks later?
Mostar, don’t let your curb-side footballers, twenty years in a whole team, sit in bookies.
Mostar, when you ask me where the Stari Most is, I am programmed to reply “u pičku materinu”.
Mostar, I’ve dangled over the sliding glass of the Neretva too often to give you a convincing answer.
Mostar, you’ve torched at least four dumpsters this week.
Mostar, I’ve developed a smoker’s cough from sitting in the curdled blue air of your cafés.
Mostar, I admire your waiters who would rather finish their Drinas than take orders.
Mostar, you rarely live the house without perfect hair.
Mostar, your Kusturica dreams of laughter, summer and crime are safe with me.
Mostar, I love to live with you when you’re cheap.
Mostar, I could be boisterous off of booze, without breaking so much as a banknote.
Mostar, I’m flattered by your warbling old Babas who corner me in Konzum and question me in crumbled English.
Mostar, I’m not from “Africa”.
Mostar, thank you for teaching me how to laugh sincerely at that which paralyses us all.
Mostar, when it rains your streets slither with taxi tyres.
Mostar, I had to pick over the shoots of hypodermic needles in the rubble, to climb a concrete Tito-phallus from where I can see the best side of you.
Mostar, will you ever dress outside of the 90s?
Mostar, your warm indifference looks more like a smile now.
Mostar, continue to tolerate Abrašević, it’s actually not an anarchist cell run by junkies.
Mostar, I’m sorry I laughed at your misfortunes and blamed you for them.
Mostar, I’m sorry I was repulsed by your attempts at control.
Mostar, keep my childhood safe with you.
Mostar, I know you’ll forget me.
UWC in Mostar