Out of the mist of my memory
I try to pull whole chunks,
not in chronological order;
or maybe on a deeper level,
because they have an order
that only exists in my head.

Some instances emerge
of our effortless cohabitation,
lighting up my synapses
in the dusk of my past.



The Genius of Love

The Genius of Love is
that it wants to be captured,
but also wants its freedom.

That is: it wants to be captured,
but only through its own will.
It seeks bonds that are soft
and tender, but only because
no one thinks about breaking them.



My general attitude
towards girls was ever
like Kafka’s Auf der Galerie:
two sentences that would
inevitably morph into
each other like hope and despair.

Until I met you, initially
locked in anguish, through
your utter unavailability,
but never despondent.

I even fled
for the need
to flee.

And there you were.



Where hope goes,
fear will follow
says Seneca:
The nervous bird
of my soul
flutters undirected
within the dark dome
of my skull.

But walking along
my future graveyard
with you,
the rustling trees,
my fears are
laid to rest
and hope remains.


Hero & Leander

How can I cross
the dark river
without the guiding
light in your window?

The strong currents
will swipe me away,
will violently suck me
into the underworld.

Where I will be waiting
for your arrival.