All of this

all of this you and me.
do you know why?
because love is not a coincidence.
it is a real choice.

we chose each other.
knowing we were wrong for one another.

over and over again.

it’s aweful. and bitter. and sweet.
all together.



She was not sad.
But her bones felt tired
and her thoughts felt heavy.



and there I lay,
thunder roaring in the distance,
the blue evening light was covering my body,
my bare skin touched the sheets
and I was so sad about
how completely alone I felt
and at the same time I was glad
that I wasn’t wasting time
with people I couldn’t stand.

things are never about you.
people only twist and turn around themselves.
the self is the center
of the self-centeredness of the world.
and I was so damn sad
about you
and I felt so damn lost
in this world,
with no idea where to go.
so all I could do was laying still
and listening to the rain.

and again I hated myself
for not answering.
there were piles of text messages
that I could not bring myself to reply to
because I felt out of touch
and desperate for spare time to myself.
I would always try
to enhance people
and to show up deeply for them,
because it only seemed fair.
but I cannot show up for everybody
when I am losing myself.
so, as the night was getting darker,
I disconnected from everything
and just lay there
and let the world rain on me
because it gave me a sense
of being a part of it all
although I really wasn’t.

I’m not even sure I’d want to be.
I used to enjoy all these things
that I stopped doing
because I felt pressured by society
to be some-body.
I lost myself
in trying to be some-body
for every-body else.

the story that we miss to tell
is that kind people went through dark nights, too.
and they might have not gotten bitter
about what happened to them.
they might have chosen
that nobody deserves to be treated
like they were.
their endurance becomes their strenght.
they might suffer in silence,
but it doesn’t mean they don’t know exactly
who they deal with.

they choose to,
although being confronted with
what has nothing to do with them,
to uphold their mildness
and to keep their arms open,
because they are emotionally mature enough
to know that you cannot treat hate
with its own source.
with love.
I don’t think they get enough credit for it.




let’s pretend
you‘d move on
the other way,
unveiling sticky layers one by one,
removing bit by bit,
running barefoot until your feet become soft,
wading through the longest
and hurtfully peaceful night,
advancing in microscopic steps,
casting your way between
complicatedly interwoven branches,
and through heavy waters,
sometimes, you seem like you’ve lost
your breath completely,
or like you’re learning to exhale
fresh air.
you know by now that I might let you
get closer to the source of my voice,
so you wander along the roots of my thinking,
rising hopes,
paused sentences,
you climb over sharp shattered clay,
which stems from the collapsed idea
of a loophole filled with genuine reciprocity.
well, if you keep hurrying inversely,
flying motionless,
if you’re losing yourself twice,
as you follow the tongue-tied song,
and you’re ascending the last iceberg’s highest top,
which lies underneath the visible,
in the wildest corner of the ocean,
you’d get tired from the adventure,
but even more eager to find the price.
where you arrive,
I longed to show you
a meadow of purple lavender
that reaches the horizon
and way beyond,
to where the sun sets forever
and where there is no room for sorrow
or plausible second guessing.
but maybe there’s no blossoming daintiness
for you to find,
maybe you’d fall into a fragile light,
which feels too soothingly warm
and tastes as sweet as honey,
reminding you rudimentarily of this
one blissful moment
when innocent love rested its head gently
on the space between
your collarbone and your shoulder,
exhaling in heartfelt relief.
or maybe
your destination is still only the beginning,
an open space filled
with something you cannot say out loud
because what you found
is that,
or is some,
it might be an emotion
no one has named
or felt

[welcome home.]

Love is a choice

this shall be the last poem I write about
our old love.

I maintain to love you
even when I don’t like being around you anymore,
even when I don’t like you anymore.
I understand now
that this is the mature kind of love,
where it is a true choice.
I know this love endures
and I know it stands on its own.
I loved you on the good days.
I loved you on the bad days.
And I loved you, when it was hard to love you.
I loved you, when you showed your darkest side,
or when I couldn’t bare your company.
And I still love you when I let you go.
And I still love you, when I leave you.
Because I choose to.

you and I together,
we only exist in past tense]


Geräusche verklingen
bei Entfernung,
beim Versinken in mitternachtsblaue Untiefen,
oder beim Einsetzen schwerer Körperklagen,
deren Beruhigung ein Problem ohne logische Lösung bleibt.

Gerufen hat das Herz,
ausgehaucht haben die angefangenen Gedanken.
Gefragt wurde im Flüsterton nach der Liebe,
danach, wo sie hin ist.
Hinüber ist sie.

Nachdem das letzte Wort gesagt,
und die letzten satten Versprechen zurückgegeben wurden,
werden die stumpfen Stimmen stumm
und die Stimmung verstimmt.
Eine lautstarke Stille findet immer mehr Volumen,
überflutet das Zwischendrin in einem Schwall.

Entschuldigungen ersticken im Entstehen,
Chancen lassen sich alle Zeit der Welt,
verkehrte Einsichten verdoppeln sich mehrfach,
eine harte Hoffnungsleere füllt eingebrochene Freiräume,
Abschiedsgrüsse finden keinen passenden Moment,
losgelassen wird nichts, das jemals da war.

[unverbindlich unverbunden]


Elliot Greer – Owed

This house is a ghost townNo life to be foundYet you could destroy meAnd i would still have you aroundIt’s hard to surrenderWhen i’m your defenderBut you changed the rules of engagement, remember?

Look at us nowTied and strung outToo young to be this oldYou broke me downNow i’m done waiting aroundFor the love i am owedOwed.


All this strange behaviour has ruined the flavourI’m leaving this time dearNothing left for me hereThere’s blood in the waterAnd memories of you i can’t clear

Where does it end?

Too far goneYou weren’t the one.

Look at us nowTied and strung outToo young to be this oldYou broke me downNow i’m done waiting aroundFor the love i am owedOwed.

–  Elliot Greer

[those are not my words.
but late at night, I sing them.]









[I sing them after the lullaby, which says:
something in the orange tells me
you’re never coming home.]


Novo Amor- Holland

I wish I could see in the dark.
and I wish I would’ve learned
how to be alone without feeling lonely,
or without missing anyone.

you have no idea, who you are to me.
and who you were.
you were my gravity.
and now I’m flying.
I had no idea that flying feels this burdened,
or that, beneath the sun,
I would run out of air
and rest.

forever restless.
and forever grieving.
and forever robbed of a dream.
and the pain has not stopped for a second.
and it has not become easier
at all.

I need to grant you a life,
where I never appear,
not even as a supporting character,
and where you won’t remember me fondly
because this is not how you see me
or how it ended.

and I need to allow myself
to crush and crumble
from understanding that there is no hope for us,
neither now nor in the future,
and from admitting
that I am still saddened to the bones
as well as utterly heartbroken over us,
and that I will never be whole again.