I waited 15 years— 15 seasons of dreaming, of tracing your contours on paper and memory, till you became more than a place— you became a promise.
And when I arrived, you met me like an old friend at the edge of the map, your arms wide with rivers, your skies painted in prayers.
Kravice fell before me— not water, but wonder, a cascade so surreal it could’ve been born from a Chinese brushstroke, each veil of mist a silent verse suspended between heaven and earth.
I crossed the Stari Most as if entering a temple, each footstep slowed by the weight of stories— resilience carved in stone, sorrow folded into arches now lit with hope.
In Baščaršija, I did not wander – I returned. The scent of coffee and copper wrapped around me like a familiar shawl. I knew those streets. Not in this life, perhaps, but certainly in one where I once called Sarajevo home.
The people… they smiled not with politeness, but with recognition. As if they, too, had been waiting for me to arrive— a misplaced puzzle piece finally finding its place among mountains, minarets, and the slow poetry of the land.
Six days passed like a single exhale. Not enough–never enough— to gather the threads of all that I felt. But I left with a heart fuller than it had ever been.
And I will return. Not to revisit— but to continue the love letter we began the moment I first whispered your name.
