rats know hope

if you don’t look down, you remember to fill up your lungs.

that’s the thing about walls closing in, makes you a little dizzy and oxygen deprived. i keep the windows open all the time. mine, but hers, too. she giggles when i make a joke. it’s not even funny. i don’t even try.

but she laughs sweetly. this pumps infinite hope into my veins. like a full glass of good red wine. like her young old skin stretching around her cheekbones. like a cigarette. she asks what about the pastry. can she have some. i tell her i baked them for her and her friend soon to arrive. but it’s a lie.

i baked them for him. another lie.

i baked them to remember that i still know how to do this. where to cut the lines, how many corners, do a proper folding, push it in the oven, wait. i baked all of this so that i know i can still wait.

twenty minutes later i hear her humming around the apartment. another rush of hope. the curtain doesn’t move, not even an inch. it hasn’t been fluttering for days. no movement. only bikes up and down the street. tonight they will be drinking again, laughing, clashing teeth and arguments, biting lips, their beer soaked hearts rubbing against each other until one of them comes, moaning. feeling safe again. a sudden rush of hope. pedaling their bikes again. sunday again.

cold, never ending cold.

until someone turns the oven back on, slides in another tray. humming. hope. giggle. kreuzberg knows this. the rats know, too.

that’s why they keep running.