Memories

when
Paris
was an endless sea of houses,
deep with unknown emotions.

The birdcages by Centre Pompidou.
Like a painting, that's vanishing,
while we looked at it.

All the faces back then.
Crueler,
smarter,
stranger.

When the train stopped in Gare St. Lazare and
we
in our winter coats,
engulfed in
the smell of the centuries
and very strong cigarettes.

In a queue for Jeu de Paume,
back when they had the
Impressionists
and someone said
"Gertrude Stein"
and the light was so much clearer,
the air so much cooler
and the future brighter.

In the quiet Appartment in the suburbs.
The cats purring,
the statute of the masturbating woman.
Laughs.
Cigarettes.
Red wine.
Good food.

I loved your deep blue eyes.
Your blond hair,
the smell of it,
the warmth of your hand,
the smart things you said.

I never wondered
what you loved about me.

I should have.

Müde

Müde

bestrahlt, durchschaut,
es gibt nichts in mir,
es gibt nichts.

Ein paar Dinge in meiner Brust,
die nicht da hingehören, die aber nicht
gefährlich sind.

Ich schließe meine Augen.

Wie lange noch?

Wie lange?

Wie?