Vom Träumen, der Wahrheit und einem [Mis]anthropen, der keiner sein wollte.

20 bars pressure in my chest as I woke up– not aware that this won’t be the worst to face.
This won’t be the last night you stole.
As you lay there. Sleeping beside me- not aware that you did the best of the worst to me.
You won’t be less than this to me.
Protesting heartbeats realizing that nothing’s wrong and nothing’s right.
But right from the start we knew that it wasn’t alright. Was it?

It might break me to watch your sleeping face, luv.
And time keep running.
And we keep losing.
Growing or drowning.
Seems just a matter of direction.
And the rain starts to pour. I could carry you home
Though we are orphan children.
Skindeep.
Ghosthearted.

You are the 4 a.m. insomnia. One coffee still ahead.
You are the great depression of a century long ago.
You are the paris metros. Circling without final destination.
You are the prada of nowhere. Your own runway cliché.
You are the last known secret.
The friend that never tells.
You are the rise and fall of rome. Lost king without a soul.
You are the deep night anxiety of every city known.
The cold streetlight in the empty kitchen before the sun sets.
You are the churchbells in the morning when you’re waking up cold.
You are the last burned candle in a chapel. Praying somehow wrong.
You are the mugger and the priest. Holy fearing god.
You are the have-you-got-a-light?
You are the forgotten cigarettes of an art student. Smoking, drinking wine.
You are the voice of every friend saying “see you” but telling you goodbye.