Excursion To Poetry #3 - Sep. 2017

Not here

nor there

a ghost wherever I go

not really here

nor there

nor anywhere.

What is home?

What exactly does home mean?

Home is where your heart is, they say,

but what if your heart is all over the place?

Little pieces left in every corner of the world

no matter where I go, there‘s always pieces missing,

not here, nor there, nor anywhere,

is fully home to me.

And with every place I go,

I leave bigger pieces behind,

hoping to find home in places

where I left the biggest one

and all the pieces,

all the places,

all the people,

combined in one,

make the biggest home just right inside my mind.

Excursion To Poetry #2 - Apr. 2015

I see how you look at me.
I see your look
that always brushes me when we meet
how it wanders up my body
inch by inch
until it rests on my face.

I see the way you look at me and I think
I know what that means:
desire.
Craving.
Wild emotions in a heart
that can rarely be wild,
if ever,
the heart of a person that seems as if
in regards of softness,
a lack of impulsivity
could compete with a rabbit:
for flight reasons, tops,
but fully unfit for the hunt.
And it's good as it is.

I enjoy that look way too much,
enjoying the attention,
enjoying feeling more than welcome,
as if you and I,
in this room full of people,
share a secret that was never has been told,
never spoken aloud,
that maybe doesn't exist at all.

I enjoy this feeling to be special,
a fobidden fruit,
a jewel displayed on a velvet pillow,
ready to be grabbed but surrounded by alarm systems.
Look, don't touch,
or your world will collapse on you.

It is good as it is,
that you are reserved,
because I enjoy it too much to tempt you,
being the emboyment of a fantasy
that mustn't come true
and, in the next moment,
blinking innocently,
wallowing in my own guilt.

I am torn between monster and moralizer,
and I am sure that if you were not you
we'd already boarded
the night train to the brink,
but I dream. I am allowed to dream.
My thouhts are free,
and I will think, dream,
as long as my conscience lets me.

Dreaming of fingers running through my hair,
touching nose tips,
only half open eyes,
only quiet, muffled breaths,
of the dawn,
just standing on the ledge a few more minutes
staring down, fascinated by not seeing the bottom of the pit,
dropping a pebble down from time to time
to estimate how far down it goes
before you hit the ground.

And then taking a respectful step back,
one step, two steps,
to safety where no one has to catch me,
until the echo of the pebble fades away
and I can finally sigh with relief
and then pretend nothing ever happend,
and that I never saw that look of yours.

Excursion To Poetry #1 - Jan. 2015

I think I love you.
You dance through the world on your tiptoes,
fleet-fooded, lighthearted, free,
like a dandelion seed.
I admire the child-like lightness you live your life with,
admire how underneath the facade of a young man,
a grown man,
there's always the little boy glacing from behind the curtain,
mischievously grinning,
winking,
laughing out loud
before running back into the forrest
to climb trees
build forts
play cops and robbers.
It seems like I could never stop
to count the invisible freckles in your face
the tiny metaphors of your boyishness
that aren't really there.

I think I love you.
Your words sound like those of an old man
wise
well-read
versed
but mentally and physically
alert and
firing on all cylinders.
When you tell of your wars
your revolutions
your politics
as if you lived through all of it
I'd love to sit in your lap
and listen
with wide eyes
fascinated by your stories
as if I'd never heard them before.
I didn't.
Not with that buzz, that passion
that you tell them with.
You fascinate me with your multifacetedness
and with your thousand faces.
Young and old and timeless.
Happy and sad all at once.
Weak and strong.

 I don't understand you
and reading you, like others can,
is impossible to me.
I think I love you.
Life feels so easy with you.
With you, life feels
like an endless summer
like making a night of it
like rainy sundays spent half-naked with a cup of tea in bed
like pizza with infinite cheese
like Come On Eileen by Dexys Midnight Runners
like dancing in the summer rain
like a glass of red wine while taking a bath
like endless holidays, forever
like a perfectly sweetened cup of hot chocolate
like Hooked On A Feeling by Blue Swede
and like Come And Get Your Love by Redbone.

I think I love you.
It's a strange kind of love.
I don't know if I want to be with you
and I know even less how you feel about it.
I only know that I want to have you here with me
my head on your lap
your hand playing with my hair
and your lips on mine
from time to time.

If you don't want me
it's not going to fret me
and it wouldn't change my feelings for you
because my love for you is independent
of your reciprocation
and from my validation.
I only want you to know
how special you are to me.
I want you to know
that you are loved.
I want you to know
that you are marvelous.
Yes.
I think I love you.