Inside me, there’s a whole world still beating
Who wants to join me in this imaginary Sunday morning mindscape? In my dreams, I can ride a bicycle too. My dress is red. The wind curls my freshly washed hair as church bells ring, the wheels are spinning to take me all the way down to West Berlin, where I once lived, loved, danced, sat, ate, slept, and wept.
Let me be this girl with socks made of diamonds, whose heart pedaling across town on a Sunday wakes the spring flowers, and the lovers who have forgotten each other’s names.
I sit at my favorite café once again, there are kids, and neighbors and dogs. There is carrot cake with triple marzipan icing; there is a championship of breakfast-eating, there’s the good coffee in Schöneberg.
Later, I walk slowly through the weekend markets, I try cheese and fruits and honey wine and shellfish with bare hands, I tell a woman with big, round breasts, and stripes of color in her hair, who sings in a language I don’t know — that she’s beautiful.
I walk barefoot to see all the houses where I’ve lived; I walk barefoot following the river, I stop on every bridge to throw a stone into the water; to bridge my way back into every wish.
At home, I go to bed early, in an attempt to prevent my inner clocks from waking me between 3 and a half to four — like they have done for twelve days now.
I miss the world,
And the world keeps turning
Even though my wheels are stuck in the air
For now.
