Donnerstag, Oktober 30, 2014

is that you?

Is that you almost crashing into the parked cars because you turned your head to look at me? Is that you who pulls away after dismissing the possibility of running into one of your ghosts? Is that you shaking me up ever so slightly - my heartbeat, my step, my voice? Is that you? And if it isn't, who is this woman and who are her ghosts?

Sonntag, Oktober 19, 2014

The truth is...

So this is new. And it is exciting. The thrill of putting a road on the map by driving it for the first time... It is like walking around in the dark. Our feet exploring the ground rather than merely stepping on it. My breath hitching with uncertainty and expectation. I am trying to figure you out, when we put up our conversations as background noise for this journey on collision course. It is exciting to conquer you bit by bit: Coffee break, phone number, dead of night conversations, your hand while watching a movie... I am sure our sex will be epic once it happens... but the truth is... The truth is I am not sure if I can love you like I loved her. And what if I cannot?

Sonntag, September 14, 2014

Things seem to be pretty random right now

"the real life" has caught up with me. Even though I am still kinda into that act of pure daring, I've been cooking up for a few weeks now. We'll see how that goes.

Dienstag, August 19, 2014

Ein Wunder

Ich warte auf ein Wunder. Eins, das vielleicht nie passiert. Doch es lohnt sich, drauf zu hoffen. Komm und warte doch mit mir. Lass uns dabei weiterleben - als Vorbereitung, falls es geschieht... Ich warte auf ein Wunder. Dieses eine.

Montag, Juli 07, 2014

Where are the plural pronouns?

the grass has grown too long on the meadow where I used to lie. It lost the prickly stiffness of grass mowed during hot summer weeks and like a giant green carpet it cushions my fall as I am wrestled to my knees by the silken June breeze. Tell me again why there's nobody left in the world. Where are the cars that swoosh from east to west in the background? Where's the hum that fortifies each and every heartbeat thundering in my ears? Where are the plural pronouns that governed my voice and the name that tied my tongue for countless hours? I tried to hold on to my field of vision: swaying green stripes on electric blue - and the slim chance to see that marvelous apricot shade again if I kept very still.


Writing poetry is easy:
there are letters and words,
short lines
like steps on hot asphalt,
the rhythm of a drunkard
swaying to a silent symphony
or stumbling
over invisible steps.

You can write and write
about skies and stars
while you're preoccupied
with eyes and scars
and smiles and skin that are off limits,
and that one name that doesn't rhyme,
don't mention all of that, then spin it,
cut it into verses and lines -
that's it, you wrote a little song
about a warm night's starry ceiling
about the one for which you long
and what you thought you were concealing...

In the back of my head The words are fading from my favourite songs, because nobody sings them.


Du hast zwei Schuhe und doch kein Paar. So wie wir beide auch zwei sind. Zwei. Dabei könnte es das doch sein: Deine Haut klebt von der Mischung aus Salz, Sonnenmilch und Schweiß und schimmert golden in der Nachmittagssonne. Was denkst du?
Dass wir beide nicht tanzen können ist nicht von Belang, denn auf dem heißen Asphalt geht das fast von allein.

Es zieht uns fort, dieses Leben, zieht uns mit sich - dich gen Süden und mich weit, weit Richtung Nordwest... wer aber wird zurückkommen, um die Gräber unserer Eltern zu pflegen?

Montag, April 21, 2014


How is it that even after we spent years - sometimes half a life - littered with late night phone calls of affectionate silence, with love notes and flowers, with our hands buried in our lover's hair while our tongues danced the sweetest tango; years filled with handholding (sometimes absolutely neccessary and sometimes just a habit), with learning all the favourites, the pleasures, the surefire hits to evoke joy in those eyes that we had studied like books until we understood that dark chocolate on a rainy day or sucking a nipple into our mouths could spark a fire in the darkest night; and then the odd moment when their pain became ours even - perhaps even more so! - if we had caused it ourselves... How can we live through this and then still find ourselves here: At the kitchen sink on a warm night in late May, looking at or through our reflection in the window and wondering... wondering if they even know! If they even know that this was after all the real deal. That this was love.


How do you love someone when you know you'll have to let them go in a few years' time? How do you deal with this riptide, this strangely abstract sensation of being swept away; how do you cope with the utter necessity of pouring all your being into this love when you know the ending date is set?
Every second is right now and somehow they light your life - as cheesy as it sounds - they open you up to a host of new perspectives and you drink them up greedily; they make your life a dance more often than not; and you're afraid for them. Afraid because they are so good and pure and perfect that the world can only tarnish them.
And for now - right now - you are protector and queen, friend and moral guidance, partner in crime and refuge. You are the centre of their world just like they are the centre of yours...
But how can you stand it for even the smallest fraction of a second - how can you stand loving like this if you already know that you'll have to see them off, that you'll have to watch as they sail away on another wind?
Are you in denial? Are you still trying to love them less fiercely? Or have you resigned yourself to be ripped to shreds?


Lass uns in ein Land ziehen, in dem wir verfolgt werden, denn ich glaub, dass wir ihn brauchen: den gemeinsamen Feind. Lass uns in ein Land ziehen, in dem man uns foltern will, hängen oder steinigen vielleicht, das wär schön. Da könnt ich jeden Tag Angst haben, dass du stirbst und es wär ganz normal. Da wären wir auf der Flucht und ich müsste dich nicht teilen, denn es wären ja nur wir beide. Dann hätten wir andere Probleme als wie wir unser Wohnzimmer streichen oder wer die Steuererklärung macht oder warum verdammt noch mal du schon wieder die Milch hast anbrennen lassen. Luxusprobleme? Vielleicht. Und doch sind sie nicht weniger akut.
Lass uns in ein Land ziehen, in dem wir verfolgt werden, in dem wir keine Rechte haben und und keine Vertrauten. Und lass uns dort so lange bleiben, dass wir die heile Welt vergessen, aus der wir kommen. Denn meine Liebe ist nicht umsonst.

Nein, sie hat ihren Preis und den musst du zahlen, wenn du mich nimmst.

Sonntag, April 20, 2014

Catching fire

I am always looking

for others who try to grasp



The morning hour that rustles through our hair

more white than blue

or the hand-width of breath

still caught in your lungs

when you ask that question

that clung to your teeth like a stray fibre of sickly sweet peach

or how in the evenings

my freckles mirror star maps

after just a few days in the sun.


I want to know

that others see, that they…


There’s so much more than meets the eye.

When you smile and say my name

it is more than two random syllables,

and when we wake

yet again

and always again

in a fresh tomorrow

then mere sunrise becomes an invitation

to try again and catch

all this wonder that rides with the wind

and runs through our hands like water.