Its the sand I miss, a pool above the ocean where I could tip my toes. There beside antique shops and drunken Berliners, a most precious beating, burning of the heart. Why suddenly do I see myself there--the blue of silk and sweated nights I cannot look back upon without regret, a flash of flowers held to my heart, dry discovery that broke all of my pieces, in pieces, in pain. And yet, even with the trouble, those childish, "nymphet" eyes look back at me, to me, as they are of me. Alive only in lyrics of those I loved, so swallowed by the sea.
That sea, however, was built of concrete waves and wistful wildlife; it consumed me, pawed over my resolve, both buried and bled my reminiscing, writing, raw adolescent self. Still, I hear the music of those strings, a door unlocked first in downtown New York and later by Alexanderplatz, once too soft and purring for my taste.
Now, in the glimpse of photographs, almost foreign to me now, I yearn for a time I suffered through. I yearn for glass shelves of pastries and my first bicycle, being lost, of and in trouble, and yet so sure of love. Love that feigned or fainted on the pfaueninsel, love that shed my dreams; the quicksand sort of love that leaves wilted but still sharp spiderwebs to reckon with.
