Manchmal fühlt es sich so an, als ob ich mich an zu viel erinnern kann. Diese warme Wehmut ganz tief im Bauch.
White t-shirts fold,
parkas dust off;
Volljährig, aber noch nicht erwachsen.
I’m in Germany, a country about the size of your old room at home, and it’s getting smaller by the day. I’ve outgrown it.
I’m all, UP, UP, LEFT, LEFT, DOWN, RIGHT, DOWN, UP. Her fingers glide across the shelf and I feel like her teammate, as she finally spots my smokes.
Her hair engulfs the name tag.
Gas stations gleaming out of summer nights, lighthouses of our teenhood. It’s almost September, and I feel young.
Thing is… she has a boyfriend, one too adorable for his own age, him and his moped.
I’m usually the last one to sneak in for midnight noodles and nicotine, him leaning against the wall, her helmet looped under his arm, the eyes daydreaming.
I smile, she smirks, he nods.
Sitting in the corner of my balcony, I gaze into the darkness, the cigarette radiates; in the distance, a moped zooms through the night.
café au lait toujours, toujours café au lait.
During all those Saturday afternoons of camping out in front our telly, I’ve been on the Matthew Broderick side of things. Ferris Bueller and all. And while laying in bed rewinding Pretty in Pink in my head, Duckie always got Andie. He still does.