I feel akin to the small boy with pointed-ear pajamas and an imagination that cannot be caught or cuddled, left extinguished or breathless by day. There is nowhere else to go, but where the wild things are: an internal, in-exterminable expression of world eventful and alien, where kisses are blown instead of noses in sleeves.
And so I put on my footies and run.
I play with nostalgia, link back to, lick back at it—promise of storks and white, white nights to ride home. I see those nights as waves, peaked, broken—imagine my lanky arms, drowned in a moonlight I could not love (or turn my back to in later stages of life).
I play in tidepools, soft and hot from sun; corner stores where I could huddle and hum a name; I play on subways, where I imagine an eventuality at KaDeWe, to step out at Alexanderplatz and stock up on krusties, black licorice, yearning that still chokes my soul. I rock in those raw and rickety arms, so sour and still so sweet to touch.
I play on swingsets, churning my insides and the inside outs I whispered, now locked tightly (without keyhole), a place even my child eyes cannot peak inside of: even my voice cannot reach to tell. So many syllables, sounds I cannot speak. Creased guitars, a piglet farm, coveralls and crudettes only touched to my lips.
So the past, played and pleated, is presented in grand gowns and big mistakes. Those mirrors, mildly tilted, both a maze and a storm: a kiss of salt, of the waves, of the wounds.
