You’re in this dream I keep having -
me, rushing along in a train or very fast automobile,
your face cutting in and out through the window glass,
bits and pieces of you, fractals against summer green,
as if you’re passing on a bicycle, careening
through the Tiergarten, a mad sprint from
the Brandenberg Gate down Staße des 17. Juni,
all the way to Ernst-Reuter Platz,
palatial Charlottenberg in the distance,
and you, your blonde hair flying, a wild grin.
You have never been to Berlin,
though I have told you many stories, of the
stateliness of buildings that have stood
for hundreds of years, that have endured
the very face of death itself, two-fold in
stone-faced nobleness and grace.
I have been dreaming of you and dreaming of Berlin
and perhaps I’ve been subconsciously pining for both;
two places that feel like home.
I think about that first night, face to face, neither of us
quite drunk enough for first moves,
just gazing at each other in your tiny bed.
Little details come flooding back some nights,
how your mouth tasted at four AM the first time I kissed you
or how deliciously young and foolish it felt,
summer-y and without consequence, in a life
that had started to feel fraught with far too much.
What scares me most is that I do not know
how to tell you that sometimes I miss you,
even though maybe you are not somebody that I should miss.
So I will keep on dreaming these dreams of you
and Berlin, and summer and kisses and bicycle rides.
The German’s understand, you see -
Sehnsucht by definition; a nostalgia
for that which I have not yet experienced.