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Epistle to the Lost ArtifactI.
I have watched the years peel back,
one by one, like old wallpaper—
the kind you find in houses too proud to be demolished.
my fingers drag along the seams,
splitting time open,
the dust of my past lives
drifting down like ash.I wonder if god is the architect
or merely the one who abandoned the blueprint.
I’ve scrawled my name in the margins of each year,
only to find it crossed out—
a half-drawn portrait smudged by rain.II.
Every time I rebuild, it’s with the same cracked bricks,
hands calloused from lifting pieces
that know exactly where they broke.
Tell me, is it faith or madness
to believe I can sculpt a cathedral
from the rubble of my own undoing?I’ve tried to pray,
but my mouth is a locked door,
and the key is rusted in the ignition of a car
he left abandoned on the roadside.
Still, I walk—barefoot on glass and gravel,
scraping his memory off my heels,
tracing circles back to the old house.III.
There is a bitterness to growing older,
a wine left open too long;
it sours in the back of my throat,
tasting of lost summers
and unspoken apologies.
Graduation looms like a funeral,
a procession of faces I will forget
while my own name fades
from the lists of things that mattered.I suppose I am always beginning again—
my own ouroboros,
swallowing the tail of who I was
in search of what I might become.
I keep thinking there is divinity in this;
a prayer stitched into the tags of my uniforms,
a whispered confession to the sky
that I might yet be something
other than what I have always been.IV.
If I find god,
I hope he is still dreaming of blueprints,
that he left the light on
in the room where I was supposed to begin.I have been knocking for years—
And sometimes I hope that he’ll answer me.
The RipeningUnder fading light,
the fig opens as all things must —
soft flesh parting to reveal
the fragile weight of its sweetness,
a testament to time’s gentle ruin.Your teeth linger, scraping against abundance,
and I wonder:
Is life not this? The hunger, the taking,
the fleeting fullness before the rot.Silk whispers against bare skin,
a thread weaving us back
to the roots we wish we could’ve outgrown.
To consume is to know,
to unravel the fruit is to see its core —
is that not the only truth we share?Juice stains our lips;
its fleeting sweetness dissolves,
leaving only a longing, a shadow
of what once touched our tongues.
We are nothing but this:
the ache for what was,
the surrender to what is,
and the certainty that all ripeness fades.
...?
kennst du das land, wo
die zitronen blühn?