Rallying cry

I have looked at the weather report today.
It’s summer like, in October.
Even for Tokyo that’s unreal.
Over my breakfast it dawns on me fast.
Soon our rice crops will not grow anymore.

The toxicity of our world is becoming apparent more and more.
I grew up with acid rain.
I have seen so many dead trees.
And my children will see waste lands.
This will be a lasting sin.
And now, just now, I will allow myself time for tears.

But in five minutes I will fight again.
You know how we defeat fear and pain?
With laughter and celebrations!
I rather dance on the deck of the fucking titanic then crying in a luxurious suite in its belly.

Punch patriarchy in the face.
Kick nazis in their balls.
Disable cars!
It may be too late to revolutionise, I don’t know.
But I still yell out a rallying cry!

I am happy in your presence.

Again.

Learning to use words.

Again.

Casting smiles.

Finally, again.

A Cats tale

It feels like it’s free.
When it’s sitting in dust.
Stretching it’s paws.
Food!
Good!
The smell.
But trotting over like its nothing.
Eating, looking bored.
Containing it’s excitement.
Confusing it’s meat unit.
Purring a little.
Just enough affection.
And back under the shelf.
Into dust.
Cuddles come later.
Now, freedom.

This is still new.
But it’s good.

I do wonder if you try to hard.

On and on.

It is indeed hard to let go.

There is light at the end of every tunnel.

Just move on.

Starting backwards, walking forwards.

Long weeks later, your non-appreciation hits me like a brick wall.
But why start so negative.
Rather, waking alone, in small streets that feel like a late summer afternoon in September.
A young woman is handing out flyers, forced to wear a ridiculous one piece. A bit hapless. Probably designed at the behest of some middle aged man, who has no good ideas.
Past small shops filled with cloth and plates. Reminds me of a broken plate collection that still remains in a cupboard. A broken plate, like a broken heart.
Precious. Far to precious to not keep. Until one day you let go. Even though there never is a replacement.

Sparrows overhead. Flocking to a space to feed. They look very sweet. Sitting above that coffeeshop I still want to go to. One day, when time is less pressure and more precious.

Precious. Today a thought floating in my head. Today is less vile, less violent. With all the very few people in the small streets, I feel lonelier. And while it’s easy to explain it is hard to take.

Is she critical of the bird? Or quizzical. Depends on your angle.
But I want to give her my shirt. It’s getting too cold to sit so naked.

A patch of nature. With stones to sit on. These are easy to find in Tokyo if you know where to look.
Here I can smell what the cats left behind that come here at night.
In the neighbouring school the sports fest is trained. Loudly, of course.

Biographies are curious and well guarded here. It is nice to know, I can just ask you, though. When the time is right.
I just hope there will be time before the sky is falling.

The streets are rich with green in this neighbourhood and while I took that photo a little butterfly briefly landed on my fingers, just to take of again immediately. It too, was just passing by.

I quite like this. It reminds me of the people who’s company I enjoy most, even if we never really fit in.
“Social pressure is strong. I fit in, but not at be expense of my personality. I claim my right to be different and to declare my difference. Sometimes I upset people, but I always express and assert myself. I have the passion to invent adornments to make you as strong and remarkable as you are confident and proud.
Welcome to my audacity.”
— Anne-Marie Chagnon.

It also is what I teach my kids, especially my daughter. Find the people with compassion and empathy, passion and will. Move forward together and make a difference. And let go those, who try to put you down.

Dream

I dreamed I kissed a transgender woman.

Her name was nice, her kisses were sweet and she told me her pronounce.

It was in a bar or club of sorts, but build like a library, books and sofas but air filled with whiskey and cognac.

We had talked for hours when I joined the dream and liked each other, with some familiarity.

Then sat down, enjoy our drinks, our eyes, lips.

I felt waking up, so I got up to leave. Told her I’d be right back.

And surely I was in that other reality, after my visit in sweet dream.

Joyful

Woman of later middle age.

Grey t-shirt and in bright pink-orange letters:

INHABITANT.

The view makes me happy, so I smile at her.

And she smiles back.

Green, grey and orange.
Pitch black.
Brown.
Silver.
Blonde.
Red brown.
Silver.
And hardly ever grey.

Hair colours sparkling in a Tokyo autumn morning.

Passing.

In passing.
Remembering.
A face, seen in a crowd.
Thinking back.
This is the younger version of you.

With confidence I miss the time we spend.

How are you now?
Where do you live?
Is your child going to school?

Inappropriate questions in my head.
Perhaps.

Wishful the memories of future pasts.
Shared wishes of forgotten dreams.
We talked so much.

In those faces in crowds.
Reflecting memories.
Smoking their last cigarettes.
In memoran when we were free enough to be young.

Tomorrow we will speak again.
Tonight though,
We just passed.

Tap, tap, tap, your phone’s keyboard is loud.

Swipe, up and down, fingers moving.

Left and right, eyes moving.

Addicted to communication.

As we always have been.

Pen on paper, feathers and brushes.

We write words to attract, send photos to show.

People lament the modern times.

Since Gilgamesh the days of old were the better ones.

Bring back past glory, miss the shining future.

Always scared, we will be seen, heard, read.

Always worried, we won’t be.

Touching even to communicate.

Killing out loneliness.

People, time and animals.

Loneliness, too, is addictive.

Your kiss still echos.
Your voice still reverberates.

So happy I was once.
So delighted.

And the solution we sought was so easy to find.
Just a couple of lines.

I wonder now.
Do I see?
Do you see?
What do we see?

Apart from happiness and misery.

How sweet to see, some people sleeping in the train.

Recently a woman slept on my shoulder and I could not bring myself to push her over.

I even made myself smaller to be more comfortable.

Not because it made me happier.

But I wondered if these 30 minutes in the train be the only human touch she can have in a long while.

This country is not know for warm embraces.

So I let her sleep, accepting the ache after a while.

And finally we left the train at the same station without acknowledging each other.

Parents

A father and his little girl in his arm.
Holding her, while she sleeps and dreams of the world to conquer.
That little wonder.
Little wonders growing to rascals.
Little monsters.
Easily loveable,
Easily agreeable,
Easily forgivable.

And a mother, moving her little boy around in a carrier, close to her heart.
He’s awake and looks around.
Learning shapes and sounds,
Seeing colours and faces.
A little wonder smiling.

And us, parents, remembering sleepless nights, when the baby cried.
Moving around in the morning, preparing meals.
“Come come, wake up, time for kindergarten, school, university…”

Every day goes by with laughter and a little drama.
Every day a little growth.
Every day little and larger steps.
Parenting is magical.

Every morning I wish my kids could wake me with a kiss.
But every night they go to bed, feeling loved.
Little big wonders.

Stairs

Crossing paths with an old man with sporty glasses. He seems to see me, but chooses not too look. A common theme, when you don’t really fit in.

I try to remember, when I got used to this. With 15, when my hair was orange and my neck carried a piece sign? Perhaps with 16 when my hair was longer and red/green and I wore darker and darker jeans, leather jackets and underground 20 hole boots, in full punk mode.
Or then with 17, always in black, androgynous, gender fluid, invisible, feeling increasingly unattractive while attracting a lot of unwanted and some wanted attention.
I forgot it when I moved to Japan 3 days before turning 27. Suddenly I felt home, felt like a part of the crowed. Happy and everything was covered in a rosy mist. And as long as no word left my mouth I was right there just a part of everything.

And as the rosy mist turned to dust and everything went grey, I turned invisible. Unseen, unspoken, untouched for long and heart broken. I only existed when I spoke up.
Silent screams, only loud after waking up from a night mare.

Until I decided to be seen. By those who really look. By those who really want to see.
It has created a sphere of wonder who I am, now. 24 years after first understanding an otherness. Who have I become. And who is with me on this trip.

Here and now I am coming back to life. Not for the first time, but the miracle is wonderful every time. Out of my inner darkness comes brightest sunlight, ready to break into colours in the prism of people I like.
And every one who chooses to see, will meet a different version of me. I remain in the shape of water, ready to fill your chosen form. The form that fits what you need. We all get what we want, if we know it or not.
Finally I understand what my pen friend Elisabeth meant when she said: I will only be a vessel, you will need to fill me with meaning.
We always want to be something to somebody. Like a bird flying to the right warmth and coziness. Like the warm embrace of a partner, the passionate kiss of a lover, the shy touch of a new friend.
Tears made by music we enjoy.

The black dress that shapes you confident. People I see. I try to see everything. And the model is trained to look, when the shutter clicks.

Comfortably I swim in warm words we exchange. Talking.

Words like kisses like knives. Cutting deep, pain is sweet.

Moments and people always melt in my memory first, later in poetry.

And whenever we single us out for a moment all hearts overflow. I run into open doors and escape through windows when I notice I took the wrong turn. With apologies.

Who needs patience when life is too short, too filled with little wonders that first crawl, then run, first cry then speak and soon escape parental hopes into their own lives. We will have given them all the love and wisdom we posses. We will have helped them to discover themselves.
Just let us remember they have their own minds, create their own happiness. And we will be left to wonder when the time passed they sat in our laps and smiled and said “I love you” without hesitation.
And we remember long forgotten tears and fights and can be proud: we made them.
Little wonders.

Climbing their own stairs, moving their own bodies, decide to live and love and sin or not. And maybe they will ask us: what did you do with 15? Did you fit in?

A perfect smoke

Still missing the dope.

As you can see in its shape.

And while I enjoyed it, I was considering you.

Your eyes working overtime to not see me.

Your ears closing as I made sounds.

I could regret our state of non-affair.

Dancing, but disfigured.

Easy.

Age differentiating.

Pain levels not aligned.

Too young to have seen as much.

And too old to not long.

Too distant for direct conversation.

“Mom, who’s that mad man dancing in the street there?”

“Someone I once met and danced with in wild dreams.”

As one does.

And I still smoke that perfect cigarette.

30 years today/30 Jahre heute

English follows German

Ich war ein Kind,
Als wir in den Straßen standen,
Für Freiheit schreiend,
Nachdem wir in den Kirchen saßen,
Für Frieden sangen.

Mein kleines Transparent forderte
Umweltkunde in die Schule.
In meiner ganzen Kindheit,
Falls der Wind recht blies,
Rochen wir die Gase und Gifte,
Produziert ganz nahe,
In Leuna und Buna.
Und noch immer Leugnen wir den Klimawandel.

Dann kamen sie,
Sprachen von schnellen Lösungen,
Blühenden Landschaften,
Wohlstand;
Alles Leicht, alles Schnell, alles erreichbar mit freier Marktwirtschaft.
Sie Predigten sogar in Kirchen* dann,
Wo vorher nur die Opposition ihre Lieder sang,
Ohne drang nach Reichtum,
Aber dass war eben, bevor der Kapitalismus die Kirchentüren eintrat.

Die Versprechen wurden gehalten,
Die Landschaften blühen.
Die Natur erholt sich, ein wenig.
In leeren Dörfern und vormaligen Städten.

Als ich zuletzt mein Kindheitshaus besuchte,
Stand es kaum noch und mein Herz zerbrach noch mehr.
Vormals ein Hotel, dann des Pfarrers Haus, nun eine Ruine.
Und Gier hat hier jeden Aufbauversuch, jede Benutzung gestoppt.

Wo Menschen leiden, steigt die Gewalt.
Wo Menschen glauben, der einfachste Weg sei realistisch,
Scheitern wir alle.
30 Jahre später, die Leute schreien wieder.
30 Jahre später und Nazis träumen von ihrer Revolution und sie kommt näher.
Unterstützt durch Menschen,
Die damals wie heute einen Wunsch haben:
Etwas Frieden, etwas Freiheit und Sicherheit.

Und hier stehe ich, ein Mann mittleren Alters,
Weine über die Gewinne und Verluste unserer Generation.
30 Jahre später,
Vieles und doch nichts erreicht.

——

I was a child,
When we stood in street,
Screaming for freedom,
After sitting in churches,
Singing for piece.

My little poster demanded
Environmental Education in schools.
All my childhood,
When the wind was right,
We smelled the gases and poisons produced nearby,
In Leuna and Buna.
And we still deny climate change.

Then they came,
Spoke of swift solutions,
Blooming landscapes,
Prosperity;
All easy, all quick, all with capitalism to achieve.
They even preached in churches* then,
Where before only the opposition played songs,
Without pushing for riches,
But so it was before, capitalism knocked down the churches door.

The promise was kept.
The landscapes are blooming.
Nature recouping, a little.
In empty villages and former cities.

When last I visited my childhood home,
It barely stood anymore and my heart broke more.
Once a Hotel, then the priests home, now in ruin.
And greed stopped all attempts to rebuild, reuse.

Where people suffer, violence rises.
Where people believe the easy way is realistic,
We all fail.
30 years later, people scream again.
30 years later, Nazis dream of their revolution and its coming nearer.
Supported by people,
Who have this one wish, now and then:
Some piece, some freedom and security.

And here I stand a middle aged man,
Crying for the wins and losses of our generations.
30 years on,
Many successes, but nothing achieved.

*Richard Von Weizecker in Halle

read aloud in a monotone voice

Speak till words loose all meaning.
Listen till ears turn deaf.
Shout.
Shout.
Shout.
About.

Take acid.
Drink fire.
Spit poison.
Smoke a letter.
Bang a drum till it bursts.

Stupidly punch a hole, to see the wall behind.
Break my wrist.
Eat my heart.
Want my soul.

The matter has passed.
Time rolled over.
Shadows cast.
Don’t look at me if you look for meaning.
My remains this empty shell.
Discarded at the wayside.
Like my first and second skin.
None of these are made of silk.

My head an extended number system.
Mesmerised by this reflection.
Look back at my self looking back into you.

We are not here, to cure wounds.
We are here, to cut them open.
Add salt.
Shout out our pain already.

Words starting with D.
We know them all too well.
Heard often, never meant.
Why?
Do we need this much pain?

Apparently.
For others.
For ours.
For fruits of our bodies.
We do.
We remain.
In pain.

All words have lost their meaning.
Read all this in a monotone voice.
Then, smile.
And never regret.

30 Jahre / 30 years

English follows German

Ich schaue zurück.
30 Jahre.
Zum November.
Als meine Kindheit endete.
Als ich wusste, dass die Mauer gefallen war.
Noch vor meinen Eltern, die gerade draußen waren und dafür kämpften.

Wir haben viele Veränderungen gesehen.
Viele Bewegungen von Ost nach West.
Ich ging in die andere Richtung, ganz nach Osten.

Die Mauer steht noch immer hoch in den Köpfen der Menschen.
Der Westen schaut nach Osten und beschwert sich über das erstarken den Faschismus, und vergisst, dass dieses Wachstum wird von Westdeutschen geführt wird.
Der Osten blickt nach innen und kann sich nicht erinnern, dass Rassismus hier nie besiegt wurde.
Und sieht nach Westen und beschwert sich über ungleiche Löhne.

Wir Deutschen machen uns am liebsten selbst zu Opfern.
Wir sehen am liebsten zurück, nie nach vorne.
Deutschland, mein Herz ist schwer in der Ferne.
Vor 30 Jahren wollten wir Demokratie und bekamen Kapitalismus.
Vor 29 Jahren wollten wir eine Einheit und machten die Mauern höher denn je zuvor.

Und ich werde mich nie wieder “Deutsch” nennen.
Europa ist wie eh und je der einzige Spielzug zum gewinnen.

————

I look back.
30 years.
To November.
When my childhood ended.
When I knew the wall had fallen.
Before my parents, who were still out fighting for it.

We have seen many changes.
Many movements from the east to the west.
I did the opposite, moving Far East.

The wall still stands tall in people’s heads.
The west looks over and complains about the rise of fascism, forgetting its led by West Germans.
The east looks inwards and cannot remember that racism was never defeated here.
And looks west and complaints that wages are still not the same.

We Germans love to victimise ourself.
We love to look back, never forward.
Germany, my heart is heavy from afar.
Thirty years ago we wanted democracy and got capitalism.
Twenty nine years ago we wanted a union and build the walls higher then before.

And will never call myself “German” again.
Europa today, as ever, is the only play to win.

Titel-less peace

Pleasure dancing in the street.
So broken, my pieces fly all over the place.

Not willing to follow all your miseries, I dance on the peak of devastation.

Look at me, I find happiness in deepest pain, even.
I find beauty in shadows, lust in you, where others see darkness, only.
Trust me and I will shine a light to burn you away and if you can, get up out of the ashes, Phoenix like.
Fly.

Look at you.
You are too young to have suffered so much.
Says the old man in me.

Look at you.
You shine too bright, to not be seen.
Blind me.

And my wish remains:
Something, anything I want to be for you.
Consider the lie.
It’s always the same.
Not just something, but me, I need to be.
And in the end, that’s just me.

Will you hear me out if I speak openly?
This lust in you, is never a sin to me.
Lust for life, lust for move, lusting for love, lust to dance, lust to know.
All shared in me.

Let me say this twice:
Feel for me.
For I’m a little fly on your arm, which you can crush at any time.
Make me fly away.
Or just feel me.
Feel for me.

Follow my little phantasy.
To the places unheard, unseen, unspoken, but free.
You know?
Create with me.

Take your eyes and move them about.
Let smiles die and cry’s shatter.
Let’s hear your laughter.
Let’s move fingers.
Let’s swing heads and hips.

Regret the future,
Rejoice the past.

It won’t be easier this way,
But dance with me on this peak devastation and misery.

Five poems story

1

I wake up; to you.
Your lovey face; I remember you.
You are here, too?

Sitting upright.
Putting glasses on.
Squinting.
It’s bright here.
Velvet behind me.
It will look thinner on the other side.

Looking out to a vast landscape.
Greens and yellows and blues and pastels.
This space lacks toxicity.
This room is filled with finest aromas.

And I get it now.
I just appeared here.

My body isn’t aching.
My heart is filled.
Tenderness in the air.

I look at you, moving around effortlessly.
Seemingly less confused then me.
Since when have you been here?
Is this my, or is it your idea?

Soft voices fill the air.
Ours.
I speak without noticing.
So easy here.

Your words, your touch.
Ecstasy.
So real, here.

The fleeting moment that lasts an eternity.
The possible peace.
The possible freedom.

Behind a vail.

20

For a touch I reach through walls.
Just so, I can feel something.

A smile and no response.
Thinking and spinning.
Head in circles.

Pulling my head over my shoulders.
Up on my hair.
To see more.

I watch people praying into their shrine.
And know I won’t be heard there; they don’t speak my language.
While a car roles over me.
Nearly.

How do I bare a thought that ain’t mine?
How do I feel an emotion right out of your heart?

Do I look at you when you look away?
Do I see your dress that spells out nemesis?

Where do years pass and leave no mark?
On my face.

You run, I see.
I am just set to fall.

We dance to tunes we play.
Finally I feel freedom like a bitter sweet taste.

The things I have seen change me, chase me.
I follow your eyes as they stare away.
I follow your head on the ground, rolling, freshly chopped of and blood still oozing.

Drained, free of lust, free of everything, I still have tears.
The flames in my smiles burn brighter then candles in sunlight.

What we do in the night, we never do in the shadows.
Why?

My screams produce no sonic airwaves.
My words induce no reactions.
My funeral will provoke no tears, for all the whiskey I will force attendees to drink.

The letter draws words on a wall in green.
Today I would prefer blue.
For My green is a colour of death.
And I have changed enough this month.

Like a bumblebee I only smell flowers and come to see.
When has my invisibility come off?
Since when do blossoms respond?

Too many thoughts for one poem, but I won’t make them 3.

Writing, while walking, mind open as if on LSD and I miss smoking pot.

Little park in Shibuya, but I won’t sit today,
Life’s still calling me back to thee.

All the questions I could answer, if someone just asked.
And all the answers I would seek, if I could direct them.

The air carries my whispers somewhere to sound like messages from down below.
Keep your blessings y’all and just speak to me.

Twenty minutes and 500 light years further and I still see no rest.
I always become what I have always been.

The fleeting emotion you cannot understand.
The one to long for without a grasp.
The heart broken ever again.
The loneliness you fear when you are not alone.
The heart you let go, without a fight.

And I thank you.
You make me an experience.

Twenty-two

Little boy praying at the shrine.
For good grades?
With his grandmother judging his antics.
I hope, he will be heard.

My watchful eyes fly around the streets.
But they do not meet.
Just see.

Seeing all these people in crowds.
Scattered on floors, lifting themselves up on towers.

No tears to divide us, now.
It’s unfortunate that we can feel the same, but never speak.
It’s wondrous that we can just move, pass, watch and never see.
Always in circles or spheres or bubbles.

Answers always hurt, my love.
Questions best always asked, my love.
Confronting us on every step of our ways, my love.

My love, a shadow in dusk.
My heart, a flame in sunlight.
My mind, poetry under your eyes.

Dancing straight ahead, we think.
Dancing through walls, I see.
Dancing straight into bed, you wish.

Blessed, we fall apart.
Cursed, we fall into one another.
Neither brings us closer.

And always 2, duality.
Two directions.
Two realities.
Two others.
Two sides of the vail.

Look at your keypad.
It was designed by a lonely person.
Two, leads to five, leads to eight, leads to zero.
Straight down.

And your smiles cannot mask your pain.
My words cannot conjure joy.
Yet nothing creates itself a future within all this.
Perhaps nothingness is the end of all this.

And the beginning.
In loops, circles, spirals.
Whichever way we choose.
Somewhere we end, somewhere begin.
In between we eat up joy and wonder.
We kick and scream.
Lay down together, tearing apart at all seams.
Or kiss and mean—something.

40–one

I am very quiet.
The noise in my head is loud enough.
Tipping on my toes around.
To not wake the sleeping monsters of regret.
Holding back tears, to give up.
And letting the rain do it for me.
I am not good at searching for solace.

Again, I am scared of letting go.

Best to walk down, before I jump these 10 floors.
These thoughts come easily.
Making it easy, to take a life.
And since I know, easer to stay alive.

In the distance shadows move.
Watching my own following yours.
I write for you and burn the words one by one.
Can you trust me now?
Just step off the stage, silently.

Playing with words, playing with life, making reality mine.
I wish you could sing for me, a consoling song.
Only, I hear a quiet laugh.

Not nasty, not belittling.
Full of sorrow, though.
Not knowing what to do.

Don’t worry about me, when I am depressed.
Cry for me when I quite and alone.
Cover me.
Come for me.
Cuddle me.

When I pull out my needles, to tattoo my bad side, visibly.
Writing in fine script over my tender skin.
Take the needle and help me writing your name.
Fingers on my spine.
Delicately following this line.

I was not, what you expected.
Later you gave up to see what I showed.
For now.

I want to read to you all I wrote.
Shouting it out into the darkness that surrounds us.

I still taste your first kiss.
Mixed in with cigarettes.
And poetry.

Words to take your pretty face and smudge it with love.
I am devastated.

Quietly looking over to you.
Sitting down and reflecting light from a screen at night.

I am so hungry for your words.
So hungry for your touch.
So thirsty for help.

My shadow touches your skin all over again.
Electrifying.
Perhaps a little terrifying.
A flirt is a promise.
Did you forget?

I loosen the screws on my thumbs that held down my scale.
Need to loosen myself a bit more.
Loosen my head.
Unscrew it.
Throw it off.

I wish to hear you don’t feel nothing.
But I only hear the air.
Emptying a space between here and there.

Fifty and 3

The smile on my face is fragile.
I smash it with my fist like glass.
And with it my fears.

Every thought is a prayer they say.
I don’t go for places of gods anymore.
And only ever pray for clarity.

I have taken your life in me.
The bits and pieces you chose.
And I know you have, too.

Your smile — as twisted as mine.
Our pain, revealing, yet hidden.
Always.

I am waiting for you.
In ruins, in paths of flowers, swimming in lakes.
We wait to awake.

Get drunk differently tonight.
Fall asleep in a bright flash of light.
And dream of your chosen path.

Down here below where I hear your whisper, I feel you ever present.

The words we can use, taste bitter now.
We choose not to speak.
Only see — each other.

I look ahead into an endless blue.
Lush greens, so unlike the colours I use.
It’s pastel and sweet.

Expression and impression.
Though, it often is the other way around.

I look fabulous today. Did you see?
You astonish. Simply.

At the Small Alley Cafe we take seat.
No forced smiles.
Still no words.
Glances beyond wall, vails, boundaries.

That nose over there, sits perfectly, between ears, below eyes, in shapes still fresh, unknown to me.
Quietly I romanticise.

Cracking a smile; it shatters again.
The pieces fall on the table before me.
Wide eyed, you look at them.

You put down your hand, carefully, to not cut it open on me.
I hesitate to take —
it.
Both we wait.

Emotions play over our faces, without a muscle moving.
I take your hand; phasing in and out of reality.
Where could a path lead, we now choose.

You are thinking of my whispers.
You heard them advancing like an avalanche.
You never thought, I could cover you.

Your words are brief.
My smile lasts.
Unscarred.

You have chosen my visibility, ripped away the shadows I lived in.
And I feel every misstep I made.
We have both stumbled a lot to get here.

I have missed you all along.
And you knew I was good.
Alone.

And I remain the loneliness you fear, when you are not alone.
Now and here we live.
Always apart in flesh.
Sometimes one in mind.

Your smile, my smile, lips to meet.
Fingers touched.
Arms wrapped.
Floating, like.
Invisible to anyone,
Visible to us.

Finally we speak.
Words like rivers.
Thoughts like trees.

We go too far.
Right, where we need to be.

2019/08/21–09/03