again, I have to learn, if a table is still meant
for crumbling croissants and obstacles,
or if it's simply a place where caffein gets cold.
the fortune tellers were wrong -
there is no trace on the edge of the cup:
and that heats me up.

I have to see, if a window is still meant for watching
robins and blue ****, or if it's simply
the most torturous part of being on my own.

once more, I will throw up stubborn dreams
and keep selling them as ridiculous antiques:
another flea market with curiosities down by the river,
that keeps flowing and shimmering in the early sun.

"where will you put them up?"