I don‘t think
any of my friends or friends of friends
ever experienced a lockdown.
sharing space with ourselves
If I listen closely, I can hear the kitchen breathing.
It‘s old and used,
showing signs of damage,
Have it seen darker times?
Have it heard its former owners cry?
Did it see them smashing plates or windows?
Or being utterly lonely?
Have it collected laughters?
Moments of unbound happiness?
What number of meals have been cooked here?
How many potatoes? Eggs? Coffees?
The ceiling is very low,
I can touch it
when I stand on tiptoes.
The noises from the streets are dense
and I feel like a small island
From my kitchen’s window,
I can overlook the city‘s centre
And watch these crisp and blue skies.
A few weeks ago,
when this whole
my mum called me, saying:
„The skies of my childhood returned.“
Who would have thought
that this would ever happen?
and the neighbour‘s wifi-connection
arrives here only in fragments.
I want to stay in touch.
My bodily perception
changed since my return.
It seems like the lack of interaction
makes me lose my centre.
Trying to stick together
all my parts
with only one thin silver cord.
At my beside locker
lies my bite splint.
What am I chewing up during these muted nights?
and the sound of smashing brothers.
A Japanese talisman is watching over me.
What happens if the world would end today?
What would be left of us?
you could go back in time
and ask your father:
“Where am I ought to go from here?”