Last night, I painted the
perfect picture of our hands...
It was a fickle afternoon.
Up on the roof of your sixth floor apartment...
You knew.
That's why you reoccured...
At night, thoughts are magnified
by the rattling of gunfire...
I want to roll
in mud and smell...
In funerals,
I’m used to wearing...
Your number navigates
amidst my eyes, too familiar, too missed...
Who needs
street lamps anyway...
Drawing his nails
along the cell ground, striving...
We're lying down,
two naked, shameless bodies...
This is my first attempt at writing Deutsch...
There it is...
The more I want you to forsake
this paper...