I hate commuting
that’s why i live near my workplace
where i can just walk by the lake
or sometimes in the basement
where cars are parked –
the shortest path.
but when I do,
it takes me back
to the night i met you.
the night i remember
i just wanted to drink wine
so i passed by the familiar bar
in the basement.
i sat at one corner of the bar-
the bartender facing me
a stranger behind me
no one in my left side
and there you are in my right-
you’re murmuring something to me
while i was deep in my thoughts
i told you i was writing a poem about dying
but i doubt that you heard it
because you kept talking to me
and never stopped staring at me
until you asked me if i want
to go upstairs
i remember your blue eyes
begging me or have i mistaken
begging for seducing?
i did not answer.
but i found my dress on the floor
of an unfamiliar bedroom instead.
i forgot if it’s the red one, the orange one
or my favorite one.
i can’t keep track of which dress i wore
on those countless sleepless nights,
or did i even wear any?
because i can feel the white duvet
on my bare skin while thinking about
my unfinished poem
or did i even finish it?
if not, i want to write a poem about dying.
if it would mean i am still living.
or should i take the longest path?
or should i start riding the train?
– Paula Bianca via Berlin ArtParasites
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