Dear Babyface

I miss you.

I can't get you off my mind.

Lately the world has felt so quiet,

Like I'm hearing it through your ears,

Buried some 6 feet beneath Chicago snow,

Muffled miles below Lake Michigan.

I'm holding on to this anger,

It's hardly comfortable but it's so warm.

I don't think you deserve forgiveness,

Even though you dished it out in such generous servings at a rate that would make anyone a diabetic.

Forgiveness is too sweet

And I, too bitter.

Your final words weren't even grammatically correct, for God's sake.

You were a poet, you're not allowed to end on a mistake as poor as that.

I demand you come back to correct it,

I'll even supply the white out.

Please.

Here's that poem you always asked me for.

I hate that you had to go to such great lengths for me to finally write it.

I'm so sorry.

I'm sorry we never discussed our apparent mutual love for Kerouac.

I'm sorry I was joking about hiding you in my freezer that one time.

I'm sorry I never read that book you gave me, you told me I needed more life in me first. I'll buy a copy tomorrow, I promise.

I'm sorry I was selfish, 

I'm sorry I'm still callous,

I'm sorry I couldn't live up to your standard of light and love.

Even in your own admission of defeat, you found a way of making the world brighter.

I'm sorry I didn't ever follow suit.

I'm sorry for talking as if my apologies or actions would have made a difference.

I'm trying to be better, I really am.

Please forgive, I'll try to do the same.

'Death has never been one of those things I worry about. When I'm called, I'm called.'

- Tom Loconti

You weren't meant to call yourself.

Oh Berlin

Berlin, you blissful backyard of hidden footpaths.

You secret garden of blossoming hearts. 

You bustling underground of coffee-stained subway maps.

You aching backpack.

You proud and shameless walk home in last nights' crinkled clothes.

You kingdom to a traveling hearts' throne.

Berlin, you empty loft. 

You basements of bare-stripped wallpaper.

You hour-long waits just to get a glance in the door.

You roaring 20s, you silent 2000s.

You most unpretentious hipster.

You genuine, unironic appreciation.

You bohemians and children and the warmest place I've hung my coat.

You simultaneously ice-chilled bones.

You contradictions.

You stumbling on salted street corners.

You laughter illuminated by half-imagined headlights.

You sleeping in through sunlight.

You hiding beneath walls of white cotton castles.

You squeaky, squeaky bunk bed.

You nostalgia for new experiences,

You expat never exiting.

You creativity, you trust, you complete lack of angst,

you every familiar embrace.

You dream-chaser, you carpe diem, you dance anyway,

you every hopeless cliche.

Berlin, you thief.

You collection of stolen hearts.

You every past and future.

You home.

You home now.

You bring me, finally, home.

Erinnerungsstraße 1

I have just visited a home fenced in barbed wire and electric currents.

There are no children playing in the garden

but their shadows still carry stones up the backyard steps.

Their spirits still stumble and fall;

a history of horrors haunted by fog and mist

and hand-print stained walls.

Our palms are dirty with dust,

with the remnants of a past

whose past-times included genocide

and watching prisoners fly like parachutes

splayed open with despair,

landing on their own broken faith,

drowning in a river of blind belief

in deathly charisma.

There are no ghosts here.

It is too dark for even the dead.

There is no one left to blame.

Hate is too deeply ingrained in every wall.

We press flat hands against gas chamber doors.

We are begging of you, forgive us. 

It was never our chosen fate

to be a part of a people

that allowed any of this to happen in the first place.

-

Sit next to a boy on a bus.

Bump knees and place blame on undersized seats.

'Accidentally' fall asleep on his shoulder.

Never ask his name.

Never tell him what makes your mind wander to foreing places.

Learn the lines of his face as he sleeps in sunlight.

When he wakes,

Shyly lift an earphone from where it rests on his shoulder.

Listen gently.

Learn what makes him stir from slumber.

Do not laugh.

You are not here to judge nor fall in love.

As you hand it back, let your hand linger in his for a second too long

But always too brief.

Fall back asleep.

Smile inwardly at the melancholic beauty in knowing when you wake

You'll be alone.

But with a bittersweet memory of love

left tucked between romance and arm rests.

The sun had not yet let loose it's morning light

As I glanced over at him sleeping,

peaceful dreaming,

clothes unkept,

hair swept over eyelid,

stale breathing;

and I left..

just for the sake of leaving.

Update Party!

It's been far too long and I apologise. All my efforts have been going into traveling and appreciating life and documenting it in my travel blog (which you can find at http://blog.travelpod.com/travel-blog/roxyhart/2/tpod.html) and writing everything on actual paper with an actual pen as opposed to on the interwebs. 

Sincerest 'sorry's. The time to hesitate is through. Updates shall begin, written exactly as they were scrawled into my notebook, most likely at some ungodly hour. Hopefully crossing a series of different countries and thought processes over the last month or so.

Enjoy.