Poetry

See this as a Flower

Everything is an ambivalent thought.
I crave the night. When people are quiet.
Thoughts can flow.
A river. Ein Wirbel.
How do we choose our memories?
A drawer for painful ones, at the bottom.
One filled with the indifferent – keep them or not, significant or not…
Our own significance, the people we loved, the knowledge we felt.
Castle of thoughts, rooms for everything that’s lost.

I can still picture the angle, how he was holding his hand when thinking,
in the middle of the air, weighing it, deciding how much worth a thought had.
I can feel this weight in my own empty hand.
Sensual significance.
How he stood there. The construct of his presence was Haltung.
Too fragile for the torment, too stubborn to let go.
Until the day came and a sharp line was painted.

Surrounded by vacuum people.
Whole relationships went missing from my memories.
Tiny moments, Nebensächlichkeiten, stayed.
It is the dream of awakening glueing together the fragments.

Oh winter, how I need your time.
Your countless hours without light, that pour concrete on the shallow.
The neverending thought of night, that jumps without rules, connects without sense, 
brings order through chaos.

This weight in his hand, in mine.
I wonder wether he can feel it on his nightly pillow.

See this as a flower.

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