It is quiet where I am and I have said very little

The tattoo of a spade on your arm
Warm rain dripping from the neighbour’s
balcony onto our teacups
Our yellowing plants
You say to me
Why have we waited so long
to observe the sun setting into the grey of
the newspaper covering glued onto the
glass wall, shielding us from the August sun

Long have I kept this lie inside the basin
of my lungs
I’ve allowed breath to travel half-way
burning back down

I cannot let you watch me write
just as I cannot have an audience with
you in my bed

I can meet you afterwards
A new woman
Maybe with new eyes
Clean, soft hair

From my hand I will let out a bird
That I have not eaten it in a ravenous want
of a voice your innocent heart can admire
means that in that moment I am free of all sin

I have hidden behind a desk for hours
Because our small lives are only beautiful
to me if their simplicity is turned into art
Maybe this is a perversion
Or maybe it is the only way it makes sense
Already there are not enough hours
in the day
for pleasure

In the thick of a quiet whisper of the night
In the melt of red sunlight onto our
balcony I want you to know
On an early morning I’d like to see you
Don’t tell me how you got there
Outside the floor length windows
is a field
And beyond: mountains
We are here forever


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