I remember the ambiguous feeling
of my bedhead
and the streets of copenhagen.
Feeling both like the Arthur who
pulled the sword from the stone,
and an Arthur who dropped
valuable spirits.
Laughable, embarrassed, tasteless.
The blanket of shame
engulfed me
overshadowing the worries of
aspirations and moves
with a black nothingness,
and an
insecure space.
As if I was some free hand out
in a drug store.

I remember the guy
who held my heart,
but never received it,
since I was
too scared,
too vulnerable,
to give it to him.

I remember the guy
who opened up my doors
making me believe the
impossible possible.
Only to get hit by a bus.
My friend driving.

I remember the drunken world.
The countless mistakes
which dance around in it.
All of us joining the
crazy parade.

I remember the keen men,
their thirsty, desperate looks,
off-point comments
and unfamiliar habits.
I remember my thought-train
and the uncomfortable
feeling
of being liked.

I remember the good feelings,
the happy hours,
which later became
questionable.
My mind’s world at war.

I remember disappointment.
The sour liquid
in my veins,
weakening my
positive movement.
Dying for the
satisfactory covers
of my bed.

And I remember me.
Protagonisting my way through
the jungle of a love life.
I.