Life continues as before

Life continues as before

I will press snooze three times

Before getting ready for work;

My waiter will ask me

How I take my usual coffee

And I will check dreams 

Off my list

As long as I breathe.

Life continues as before

Except in those quiet moments

I recall our moments

Written in stone.

Don't we all start off as strangers?

Before soon enough,

One takes a piece of your heart

You never want back.

We cross paths just to part

Everyone leaves 

And we are left with memories;

The waves will wash away our footsteps

But not the fact that we made them.

Life continues as before

The world will not stop

But I will –

Then for a second,

You and I share a moment.

Street poetry

Empty streets

Two souls

Filled with memories

Of the past

Our past ;

We have walked these streets before

Young and in love

Our entire lives ahead of us.

We knew everything back then

Until time taught us

Doubt everything.

I see these words for the first time

Though they have always been here

Long before my love of words,

I found.

Empty streets

A poetry reading

We have been here before

Why are we here once more ?

A word

As long as I live, the well is infinite.

Freedom

Sun kissed,

The warm wind skating on my skin

One hand on the shoulder,

The other one holding on tight to this moment.

A day for the books,

In mine nonetheless

Our past months rumbling in my helmet,

Taking me on this ride to where we are heading.

I close my eyes to see

Right here, I am free.

The real thing

Some people will never experience Berlin

Except through stories,

Have their thirst for the thrill quenched

Than by reading.

Close, but never close enough ;

I never saw that sunset,

Just the reflection of it,

And it was just as perfect.

Not all love stories have the happy ending

But that does not make them any less real 

Than the real thing.

The same poem

A new beginning,

A comparable ending

It is the same poem

I keep writing.

The message differs

The titles adjust

One more figure of speech

For picking up a broken piece.

Elusive alterations

Editing the outcome

A plethora of versions 

For my book of poems.

Another round,

Back to square one

Are there any words left

This heart has not said.

Foreign land

If he really loved you...

If he really loved me, what? 

I suffer from Fernweh constantly,

Which horribly translates to wanderlust in English

Read the irony;

Still, I am traveling.

His blue eyes gallivant for a split second,

Sensible to where his mind escapes to,

I let him. 

I go fetch him water

He sneaks up from behind

Never turning around, 

He sees my soul full frontal.

If he really loved you...

If I really loved him, I know

What works

He is foreign land,

And I do not own a map.

Half love

Half a life
Half a love
Undivided submission;

Half-hearted
I am utterly devoted
To lesser moments.

Between the sheets
The mind drifts
In search of atonement;

Part-time wrong
Entirely yours
An inevitable outcome.

It is living half a life
Accepting half love
Full-time;

My light,
Take me out of the dark

The courage within to say goodbye.

I will kill you with a metaphor

I will kill you with a metaphor

My feelings censored

Behind beautiful words.

I dare not say it to your face

The euphemism 

When I am burning with anger.

Toying with the void

Here I concoct

The right expression;

My sweet weapon

Retort with an oxymoron.

Then nothing; no paradox or pun

I am even at a loss 

For a rhyme. 

For when our eyes meet

It is poetry I read,

Without a word

We say it all.