I hope to come home soon
but there's no place to call so.
Homesick, i think of sea air
since i turned my back on her.
No return to the sailing city
I mull over a wicked what if.
I ache to spend time alone, no
wind blows in the metropolis.
The crowd belts around me,
blocks view of the lighthouse.
Set anchor in a sea of concrete,
the saving grace’s disappeared.

On a soft July evening he paints a garden path,
lined with all the flowers she admires. He dabs tarnished lanterns on canvas, so she'd walk safely in gentle light. The brushstroke blows her goodbye kisses as she passes by and finally he sets amber accents into the twinkling of her eyes.

I remember afternoons with you,
we spent days lounging in the old armchair,
rays of sunlight shined through the blinds and my favourite color is still the amber of your eyes.

Do you want to go for a walk?

Shared adventures, we travel on foot. The world had so much to offer to us, let’s run for hours.
Gone wild together. Rain and storm couldn’t harm us, later we’d warm up in the armchair.

I had to grow up quickly while you remained a puppy. Couldn’t take you with me because cars freaked you out. I had left for the city and my life was too hasty to spend a thought on an armchair.

You were with mom, I knew you were save there.

Every time i visited your fur turned grayer and your bowl stayed a little fuller until the end of day. You walked comfortably, we just made it to the hill behind the house, your tail still wagging.

I wish I could turn back to the old days.
I wish i took time when you wanted to play.
I wish I never had to sit alone in this armchair.

I regret.

My mother recently took me to another doctor
she said, ‘her condition is becoming outrageous ,
she hasn’t laughed in a year, avoids any talking,
never leaves the house until the night draws in. ’

And I think the sun should rather concern her.
Burning things don’t make good companions.
Bought a ticket for a train, northbound at night,
my eyes hurt from the condolences of daylight.

Went back south in September, I surrendered,
had to promise to be good again and presentable.
Indifferent on life, did I suffer from depression?
It’s not been an illness but a philosophic decision.

One Sunday, it was quiet during breakfast time,  
somebody from town recently took their life.
Rised brows behind the newspaper’s edges,
secretly, I admire the courage and recklessness.

But I act eager and am polite with relatives,
at holiday occasions I behave and give kisses
until one proposes a toast to life being a gift.
I say nothing in exchange, I feel guilty to exist.

It all changed one day, when I found me a lover.
He sins for amusement while I sin to self punish.
I love that he’s mortal, of a perishable texture,
hope to be buried, rot with him in the graveyard.

We agree on senselessness without any pity,
he watches me fail life and thinks it’s poetic.
We can’t hurt since there’s nothing to heal from.
A physical love wich in it’s essence is platonic.

It's the stumbling in your steps,
it's the fast pulsing in your veins,
it's the rattling of your lungs when you run.

It's the arch of your nose,
it’s the bulging scar above your brow,
it's the one crooked tooth when you laugh.

It’s the sweat when you fear,
it’s the hasty stutter in your speech,
it’s the downcast look when you’re ashamed.

It’s the hour you’re born,
it’s the vague sense of a life,
it's the sun rising once again after you die.