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Your feet sink into the grass beside your older brothers car.
He lifts both your mud-patched raincoats, and he asks you how you are.
You remember how you loved him, but the words would ring too far,
cause a melancholy shift
inside your workday-ridden hearts.
And the iris-colored tiles inside the renovated bath
Smell of lemon
and of gypsum
and your grandpas last cigar.
Your tongue is tired of renovation,
Wants to speak unspoken pasts.
Instead you tie it with the future.
Raise a half-filled, polished glass.
© Nachtschwärmer
He lifts both your mud-patched raincoats, and he asks you how you are.
You remember how you loved him, but the words would ring too far,
cause a melancholy shift
inside your workday-ridden hearts.
And the iris-colored tiles inside the renovated bath
Smell of lemon
and of gypsum
and your grandpas last cigar.
Your tongue is tired of renovation,
Wants to speak unspoken pasts.
Instead you tie it with the future.
Raise a half-filled, polished glass.
© Nachtschwärmer
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