We died among twigs in bloom,
long before we were done.
Like stars falling and burning
on a clear night,
far from home.
Forgotten with these wars
nobody ever won.
Wrong love, it is called,
lost before it’s found.
Yet still breathing,
the way roots calmly breathe.
My one and only East,
so far, so gone,
I own your pale hands
like two perfect lies.
They live on my skin
where you left them,
drifting.
At night I lay down on the cold,
cold ground,
the way we never were
– alone.
My bones are full of distances,
languages between us
unknown.
In the middle,
the weightless child,
who never learnt to speak
at all.
There is nothing more
I can lose,
nothing more to prove.
My joy forever belongs
to your sexual soul.
For my sins,
I need no pardon,
no last call.
Broken hopes
never had wings,
even less apotheosis.
When I close my eyes
the music of your body
is enough,
I hang on
the red clockwork of your pulse,
that sweet sound of life.

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