{if i became the song.}

away on the dewdrops of musky water that
dream of being pearls and
moontears,
i can hear you breathing, the brookish-trip
of your heart strangely memorable.
and then i am crying but i am not the gibbous
midnight entity, and so all i see is molten
salt.

(it's a little bit funny, this feeling inside)

ladybirds flee and the colourless
woods begin a queer process of rotting,
but the leaves only turn goldscarlet,
and my pulse dances
haltingly, like soleless feet on cinders – thumpa –thump- thump-

almost like yours, of course,

but i think i like the sound of
yours better, because it is robust and full
of capering elves and little shoemakers,
tinsel and mermaid
scales, tophats and worn pencils,
fireside stories and pieces of the sea.

and because, it is full of her and not me.

(i hope you don't mind, i hope you don't mind – that i put down in words)

15.06.2002

excerpts of "your song" by sir elton john are in parenthesis.