A dream. A romance. A love. In Words. I think you prefer when the world "together" means not "a million," but just two.

  Poems to Louis


I was one of the insatiables. The ones you'd always find sitting closest to the screen. Why do we sit so close? Maybe it was because we wanted to receive the images first. When they were still new, still fresh. Before they cleared the hurdles of the rows behind us. Before they'd been relayed back from row to row, spectator to spectator; until worn out, secondhand, the size of a postage stamp, it returned to the projectionist's cabin. Maybe, too, the screen was really a screen. It screened us... from the world.


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Illusions in the Night

Meeting in dim light. Talking in the darkness,
kissing within a dancing crowd.

Riding home on the swings of the breaking light.
Morning light. A paper. A bottle of water.

Taking off each others clothes, discovering secrets
within two skins, pressing against each other.

Love in the semi-darkness of the morning.
Making love to a stranger, really.

Feeling alone afterwards.
Feeling alone forever.
10.8.08 23:41



Ich habe so wahnsinnige Angst um ihn ...
11.8.08 23:45

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