to return is not a right, but a wrong move forward,

one which will hold no more a promise, but regret,

on days when all that’s left is still to be unwhispered in a word

collaged onto the glass wall that surrounds you, to forget

the moments of betrayal, as love keeps shielding all those pasts

so clear, you keep on taking breaths skipped more than once;

for it was true in all its lack of truthfulness that lasts – 

you have not lost a right but a wrong move forward into impulse,

no battles, not a war, neither a game, just blank a nothing that would circle 

into viciousness too deep, so that another thought can move on seamlessly,

without memories of you entangled in the flowing verse that keeps sounding too mortal,

on what is not one day too many, spent rewriting rhymes to tunes that loop on ceaselessly.

(inspired by the sounds of ‘Love song’, by Max Richter)