who?
what?
I,
thats who.
who's asking anyway?
Was it that ratchet **
frahm the deli?
*** I got something to say to her, And I will say it
sometimes she puts my chicken on rye
on ciabatta.
And sometimes it's fine because...
sometimes I see the moon then soon I see the sun, sometimes I like to look out of the highest floor
and everything is so small and so peaceful:
no one can upset that tranquility,
the sheer exhaustion of life,
gives one a tough exterior, a shell.
If someone comes a knocking, before i've had my pie, it's all over,
but sometimes realizing you are but an ant...is refreshing
then you get back downstairs and someone spills their grande americano, no milk or sugar, because that's so  mainstream on your cashmere cardigan
then you realize
that throwing a punch is so very healthy
a punch straight in the retro glasses that they do not need.
pow, right in the kisser.
So you can tell the nashty from the deli
she might be next.
The man who spilled his drink is now on the ground, but it's ok he instgrammed the whole thing.

today i played Ambre
in a concert of 20 people
with my eyes closed all
but at the 25th bar.

Out of every sobre
heart i saw for that 3 seconds
i saw your own eyes closed
enwrapped in the music.

you weren't thinking about the calibre
of people in this small room,
or the cost of the ticket.
Not about the cold room

or warm bodies or the fibre
that stuck so close to your skin
that they were seduced with its pleasure
or the fingers that pressed the keys

Your mind covered by sabre
in the message.we both knew
what Nils Frahm wrote in that piece.
We know. But we can't say