You are gone. But qartulad , you still exist in every declension of my memory. In the wine-dark evenings. In the toast to the dead that comes before the toast to the living. In the way I cross myself passing a church, even though I stopped believing.
Do you remember how you tried to teach me Georgian? "როგორ ხარ?" — How are you? "მიყვარხარ" — I love you (but literally: “You are whom I love” — the subject hiding, the object coming first, as if love always puts the other ahead).
Not in English, where feelings fit neatly into boxes. Not in the language we used to order coffee or argue about rent. But in Georgian — raw, ancient, stubborn — where love is not just love but sikvaruli , a word that bends with suffixes like a vine heavy with grapes. Where “I miss you” is not direct, but circled through verbs and cases, like a prayer you learn by heart without understanding.
Dear ex — I don’t want you back. But I want you to know: I finally understand what you meant when you said, "ქართულად ლაპარაკი გული მტკივა" — speaking Georgian makes my heart hurt.
Here’s a short, emotional blog post titled — written in English but infused with Georgian phrasing and sentiment. Dear Ex, qartulad I never thought I’d write to you again. But tonight, Tbilisi is wrapped in that familiar fog, and the lights on Mtatsminda blink like unspoken words. So here I am — speaking to you qartulad .
— Not really goodbye. Just qartulad . Would you like a Georgian translation of the full post, or a shorter version for social media?
So I’m writing this letter in the language you spoke in your sleep. The language your grandmother used when she cursed and blessed in the same breath. The language that holds three words for “morning” depending on how light touches the mountains.
Qartulad means: I don’t just miss you. I feel your absence in the grammar of my days. Every morning without you is a sentence without a verb. Every night, a story left unfinished.
You are gone. But qartulad , you still exist in every declension of my memory. In the wine-dark evenings. In the toast to the dead that comes before the toast to the living. In the way I cross myself passing a church, even though I stopped believing.
Do you remember how you tried to teach me Georgian? "როგორ ხარ?" — How are you? "მიყვარხარ" — I love you (but literally: “You are whom I love” — the subject hiding, the object coming first, as if love always puts the other ahead).
Not in English, where feelings fit neatly into boxes. Not in the language we used to order coffee or argue about rent. But in Georgian — raw, ancient, stubborn — where love is not just love but sikvaruli , a word that bends with suffixes like a vine heavy with grapes. Where “I miss you” is not direct, but circled through verbs and cases, like a prayer you learn by heart without understanding. dear ex qartulad
Dear ex — I don’t want you back. But I want you to know: I finally understand what you meant when you said, "ქართულად ლაპარაკი გული მტკივა" — speaking Georgian makes my heart hurt.
Here’s a short, emotional blog post titled — written in English but infused with Georgian phrasing and sentiment. Dear Ex, qartulad I never thought I’d write to you again. But tonight, Tbilisi is wrapped in that familiar fog, and the lights on Mtatsminda blink like unspoken words. So here I am — speaking to you qartulad . You are gone
— Not really goodbye. Just qartulad . Would you like a Georgian translation of the full post, or a shorter version for social media?
So I’m writing this letter in the language you spoke in your sleep. The language your grandmother used when she cursed and blessed in the same breath. The language that holds three words for “morning” depending on how light touches the mountains. In the toast to the dead that comes
Qartulad means: I don’t just miss you. I feel your absence in the grammar of my days. Every morning without you is a sentence without a verb. Every night, a story left unfinished.