officially it has been two years,
unofficially one.

I am happier elsewhere, and I can imagine you are too
still you remain
my inspiration for poetry,
art,
and my thoughts.

when I see her there with you,
I am not sad,
and I am not not happy
mostly, I wonder —

do you think about me still?
do you compare her to me?
I did, I compared him with you

even though I promised to him and myself
that I wouldn’t

but the mind does what it wants

do you fight like we used to, loud and aggressive?
or does that require years of confidence built up by baby love

do you love like we used to, admittedly & comparatively selfish and shy?
or was that our teenage bodies remaining in us past our 20th

mostly I try to remember how being freshly loved by you was
so much intense frustration, in all ways,
endless giggles, but often nights with dawn sorrow.
of course, I need to remind myself that there was bad
my mind tries to only highlight the good with you

mostly I wonder how such intense fighters
could turn to such formal friends
and mostly, I am disappointed that you haven’t
told me about her yet.

Then
We were always keen on space talk
We discussed what stars meant for us
I know you didn’t believe but
We wished on falling stars
We planned on where we would go together when we finally could

Today
I can’t remember the constellations
that I used to trace on your back
I had maps and shortcuts to all fissures and valleys
I really knew you inside and out

The black hole that the many conversations created
took everything that I had had in my capsule
One day someone will find it and dig it out
BUT REALLY
It could only be you again.

We spend the weekends together,
and send "good nights" during the week.

Lonelier than ever,
yet loved more than over a year —
You're the only one that knows.

If I have to catch myself at least once a day
to not
let those three little words spill,
I know I've made a mess.
I can't feel like this!
But feelings don't listen, dear.

In just six months I know we'll be apart:
"It's better this way", I tell myself.
But why does it hurt?
Why am I scared?

A strange limbo
I cannot explain
No, not even to myself —
Then how could I confide in friends?

I cling on to the hope
that we'll find our way back
because I think, I feel,
I hope again:
All senses that I had lost the last years.

But at the same time
I remind myself,
of how I did feel.

Maybe over time
we are just meant to
crumble to less than friends
and then lovers again,
and again.

three times we have made it to the northern sanctuary
each carried its own significance
each with its own emotions to bury

one: honeymoon phase
a new beginning, an exciting future
the only constant being us
celebratory boats, bikes, birds

two: friends join
a year in, half a year not all in
shadow follows me around
a week spent in anger, one or two exceptions there

three: pretentions
i hold it together, 1 and a half years in, you know
how much
i crackle, snapped and popped after
i did not dare show my emotions; grin!

it seems so silly to complain
about a luck that i have gained
a nice house
my own car
education, health,
and a loving family

anyone would look at me
with the silliest face
what am i thinking,
what a disgrace?

my problems are peas in comparison to others
but hey, i have feelings,
please don't neglect them.

a nonstop pressure
and accidental unappreciation
suddenly i am the girl
who has everything: "appreciate!"

i have not quite learned,
to love,
or lose,
or myself

"these will be the best years of your life"
echo in my mind
over the sounds of my gasps
for air, in between tears-

sometimes from laughter,
sometimes,
more often, from loss,
or perspective of it.

pretending
"yes i love it"
"yes i'm having a good time"
is not convincing
me
the only person,
important in my own happiness;
the hero of my emotions

learning to say no, stop, over now
learning to contain
a shout, a judge, a scream
not quite, but a little bit

the [best] two years of my life
have now so suddenly received
a forecast of much rain and clouds
always on the brink of hail.

there is a gun pressed to my chair
not sure whether to feel safer or more scared
the room is tense
waiter sneaks glances onto the young man, no older than 25
rolling his dice could not be louder than the 45 dB
silence, easier recognition just in case
i ask my dad not to take a secret photograph
fearful

slipping in and out of an unconscionable haze
but drawing back into the dark; one phone call away.
after escaping into the bathroom to cover up the red, my eyes stare back, out of apparently my own head
unrecognisable i stare at the girl
who just one more year ago was loved and unsure

two hours later another call becomes another wave,
i cater myself a slave,
to the sadness on the other line
in this together but 930 kilometers away
there's not much i can do than to sit here and pray

not quite religious and little if no hope for a chance, i pray for your little p* and heart,
to feel no pain for one more day.
i also pray for my message to reach you;
your incredible ways we couldn't have taught you

A sad man sits in front of me in the library
He seems generic;
A used sketchbook, modern glasses, and a Banksy sticker on his MacBook.

His arms are filled with marks
black ink solemnly attempts to cover up what is underneath
But they are beautiful
An abstraction of two people kissing, entwined like the style of the art
Further up is his star sign;
Aries

Honest, courageous, passionate
Impatient, impulsive, intrusive
I don’t know if this is him;
All I know is his art, encompassing his every stroke
and carve

His left arm has a different mark
;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;;
What happened to you?

i lie here today wondering
how different it would have been
had i ended up with him?

would i cry less, would i be happier?
now he sends me messages of love and trust,
making me fall and believe

but if i remember before you,
he had made me cry enough too
why is it like that?

i supposed he realized that
i found someone new
and somehow he is jealous of you?

The sun shone on your last morning,
2 hours later snow fell.
Maybe this was you, gracing us once more.

You stood as a contrast to our black clothing,
your innocence, kindness,
against my guilt.
I should have called, I could have heard you one last time.

I am overdue for this apology.
It has taken me nine days to write this,
I'm not sure what was stopping me,
but I couldn't possibly utter these words.

We sat in a row, listening to old relatives speak about their past with you,
and all I could feel was your cold, thin hand grasping mine,
your large blue eyes looking for me with hope,
your beautiful voice singing me to sleep:
"in der Früh, wenn Gott will, wirst du wieder erweckt"...

I wish I could convince myself;
God decided it was your time to go, as you had told me he would.
But I know you suffered and I know that He wouldn't have taken you
before I could have said goodbye.
Or maybe this was His plan, to make us suffer for you, for once.

When the bracelets that you wear become
symbolic of who you love,
and I wore two while you had none.
Would it matter how these bracelets looked?
If it does:
One was pink, it bore the symbol of Christianity
I had been asked many times if it was
but all it proved was my unconditional sinless love
for you
the other was striped, red and white
while everyone told me it "was so much like me"
I wore it because it "was so much like you"
and by now we had melted into each other.

I suppose we started falling apart when they did,
the first I lost yesterday.

I would say I love you to the moon and back
but that isn't nearly enough
I could spend twenty-six years of your life
on another planet just for the
hope that I could still return to your arms
and tell you that that is at least how much I loved you.

I could sacrifice my heart because I know that
every part of my body will be infatuated with
your touch even without the heavy breathing and
powerful pumping of your compassion.
I will love you doubtlessly.

I suppose I realised around the time
that the trees started looking like anxious fingers
searching for their little blue pills

I realised on a walk
that maybe, just maybe, love was not enough
to love

I searched for a bench to gather all the thoughts
where the trees surrounded me
in a circle of confidence and confrontation

A guzzle of wind fought through my thin layer
and the fragile but thick fingers of my friends
threatened me

I had made a hypothetical decision
that I knew I would never act upon
hoping that maybe, just maybe, love could be enough
for now

"The other one, the one they call [Sophie], is the one things happen to."

Slurring steps like words, not even drunk, yet
still seeing clearly the blurred letters you sent.

I let her cry, although I never understood
how the salty spate should heal a temporary break.

Blowing up small things to make them big is, what?
we were taught, more than being warned on how they will pop.

I can clearly see through the glass bones and paper
skin, sitting and tightening her ribs, enjoying the plague.

Spilling speech, strictly to rid myself
of your poisonous finger-tipped bones.

I let the break hurt more, swinging mischievously, pulling off the band-
aid slower to compose the tones for her to express.

the first
innocent to the core, a
stolen love through
the words
of my brothers

the second
long after had only loved
for an exact amount,
none left to give
after a deadline was met

the third
a stupid drunken night
resulted in a quick
disgrace
of my decisions

the fourth
stuck needles where he
shouldn't have, a
heavy river spilling
on the rocks
and ghostly waters

the rest had no love to give
only advice to spare, a
game lost, a game
won,
all in the same vein

sluggishly whispering hints
hoping you would notice
instead obliviously ignoring the obvious

a vial with a drop of truth
an ocean with a spill of lies
but blaming you for being blind

watching you watch her
feathers in your eyes welcomed me
truthfully really allured her

instead i blamed you for my mistakes
but knew i was suppressing a bittersweet reality
truthfully only wanting all i couldnt

i’ve heard fairy tails that couldn’t have sounded
better
than your soft voice
as you tell me the bed time story
that was now only a
string of words so familiar to me like my own
name.

i’ve dreamed in beds that couldn’t nearly make up for the
satisfaction
that i felt when you wrapped me in your tender arms,
after a long day,
i heard the shouts and
screams
and tears that were all now too only
familiar
sounds to me

but up close, when you lay next to me,
a new noise found me.

in between more liquid beads of trust
rolling
down your cheeks onto mine
i heard the words that no
child
desired to hear.

Receiving and reflecting
on revolting reassurances.
You reason with me
"I'm right",
ranting on about your righteous
wrongs.
Ruefully agreeing to you,
an overrated relationship
rescued by agreeance.

I tasted sweetness
My mind wandered
you had the key
to the deepest chambers

Imagination created wolves
howling to the moon,
me, imitating them as
you tasted sweetness
(and success)

Flashes of primary colours
washed my thoughts
into a rainbow sliding
around to the next where we
would finally
both taste the sweetness

In a dream I realised I didn't want you
In it we were painting murals on my ceiling
It was dark but light enough to see the outline of your face
I hoped it was the street light shining through the bent blinds
On my tip toes I stood just reaching the wall
Each of us drew our own delirious dreams.


Your face appeared in front of mine
The back of my neck stretching,
my fingertips reaching out to touch your cheeks
usually rose but now green,
fluorescent and bright.
It was morning

finally snow fell onto the ground
landing softly and safely on its white blanket
they say white is purity, innocence, wholeness and completion

when i saw the white wall sinking to the floor
i thought of you
your eyelids fluttering shut resembled the snowflakes
so delicate and fragile as my heart
crash
break
sliding
slipping
pained
blood

dripping to the floor
flags of patriotism
pink
a beautiful swirl
of wind and colour and snow,
finally

and so i painted with cheap alcohol hoping it would turn my art into a drunken dance of emotions

hi he hypothesised
hiding his heart
holding onto hope

lust lingered on his lips
lather lying on his legs
lulling his lungs lightly

tears trickle trails
tolerating treason
to my tongue

unfortunate
uttering useless unapologetic
unexcused excuses

and I didn't want to
fall for you
because falling only leads to
scraped knees and
****** bandages

but I enjoyed the beautiful
sunrises that appeared on my
legs and hands
and I kept begging for more
forbidden pain until I was
numb to you

but the amount of scars left on my
canvas of a body today couldn't
add up to the regret I
felt for not having
fallen
hard
enough.

I let myself fall
I let myself be liked
I let the birds chirp their song of freedom
I let my book drop to the floor
I let the window be my soldier
I let flowers tickle the bees
I let myself stand up
I let the bathtub flood my apartment
I let you think I was a tooth fairy
I let coffee drip down your face into your mouth
I let the ocean turn black
I let the air vessel float with its mighty wings
I let losing be the new winning
I let good poems die for the sake of narwhals
I let her into my kitchen
I let her eat the food in front of her without a spoon
I let the fork in its cave with its many twins
I let the bubbles in their bottles as I sipped from their mouth
I let the dress float through the ground level liquid
I let myself believe your truth
I let myself walk on
I let me be folly.

After Matthew Dickman's *24 Hours

My father could hear a fish diving into the depths,
or a bee lost in an odourless darkness
and every pump of blood
that kept us alive.

More spoke to him from the vacant-eyed creatures
than his own blood,
standing feet beneath him,
screaming but still silent for his loud disapproval.

My father lived with the sounds
of walls closing in on him,
blocking the barriers with the
thoughts of his children’s voices.

*After William Stafford's "Listening"

Legalize the dark night
in which he grow up in,
the illuminated streets
in which we modeled our deep edges and rough cuts.

Decriminalize the chilling touch of winter
that makes our lips dry and blood red,
the icy spheres
that paints dabs of colours on our bodies.

Sanction the art of the sciences
where the only one paying is the consumer,
the cruelty of the art
where the media slices the eyes of the observers.

Legalize, decriminalize and sanction
all
that has made us many and
once at once.