In the Palm of my Hand

here I put the words, there the rest: duesternis.tumblr.com

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Für screenreader unter dem cut

leg deinen arm nochmal um mich,

lass mich nochmal deinen atem

spüren

auf meiner haut

und sag meinen namen

so sanft, so nervös,

so voller sorge,

als würde gleich der boden unter meinen

Füßen bersten und nur du weißt es.

fang mich, wenn er birst und halt mich

fest so fest, das in mir alles platzt

und nur die hülle bleibt,

für dich zum füllen, zum behalten,

denn mehr will ich nicht als endlich endlich

endlich dir gehören so ganz und gar

vollkommen

der deine.

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Der ADAC war heute da und trotzdem.

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sunrise

standing by the darkness looming behind the open french doors, balcony a no man’s land shrouded in gossamer, he draws on his cigarette, the ember a ship passing in the night. smoke gathers between his lips, spills in a lazy trail up and away.

on the bed, by the far wall, the most gorgeous man in the world looks at him, sheets shying away from his long legs, the strength of his stomach. his chest is still wet with sweat, hair a dark thing on the pillows, eyes clear and sharp as always, seeing all he wants to hide from view.

he flicks the half smoked cigarette over the railing, watches it bounce sparks on the tiles below, a miniature explosion his heart mimics when he turns around and finds himself drawn in by those eyes. the sheets rasp against his naked body when he crawls over them like a dog

back to the side of its master, back to bending his back for both their pleasure, back to the throes, back to the gasps and grunts and moans of two animals caught in the skin of men, caught in the traps of their own making. caught in each others’ sharp sharp teeth.

hey, he says later, another cigarette between his teeth, darkness beyond less dark and sheets a mess on the floor. the pillows are swallowed by both their hair, tangled, fused, one and the same. the most gorgeous man in the world looks at him and waits for more.

hey, wanna run away together, he asks, grinning, making it half a joke while his heart threatens to choke him, veiny hands on his throat. the most gorgeous man in the world blinks his dark eyes, twitches his big hands against the sheets and touches his hip with two fingers.

the cigarette burns a hole in the carpet and he shatters like a cup against the two points of heat on his skin, spills viscera and blood and secrets, so many secrets, more secrets than cells inside of him, washing them both in filthy, murky red, as the horizon lights itself on fire.

i can’t, says the most gorgeous man in the world, teeth perfect rows of pearls that he would dive to the deepest depth for, drown himself for. i know, he answers, laughing the pain into submission, into a corner, pointing fingers at himself and laughing at the clown, tripping over his own shoes.

outside the sky bursts into colour in a breath-taking display no one sees - the whole world avoiding the sight for a split second, so that everything has changed once they look again. everything has changed and it all stays the same: smoke and darkness for them and the rest for the others.

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sunrise

standing by the darkness looming behind the open french doors, balcony a no man’s land shrouded in gossamer, he draws on his cigarette, the ember a ship passing in the night. smoke gathers between his lips, spills in a lazy trail up and away.

on the bed, by the far wall, the most gorgeous man in the world looks at him, sheets shying away from his long legs, the strength of his stomach. his chest is still wet with sweat, hair a dark thing on the pillows, eyes clear and sharp as always, seeing all he wants to hide from view.

he flicks the half smoked cigarette over the railing, watches it bounce sparks on the tiles below, a miniature explosion his heart mimics when he turns around and finds himself drawn in by those eyes. the sheets rasp against his naked body when he crawls over them like a dog

back to the side of its master, back to bending his back for both their pleasure, back to the throes, back to the gasps and grunts and moans of two animals caught in the skin of men, caught in the traps of their own making. caught in each others’ sharp sharp teeth.

hey, he says later, another cigarette between his teeth, darkness beyond less dark and sheets a mess on the floor. the pillows are swallowed by both their hair, tangled, fused, one and the same. the most gorgeous man in the world looks at him and waits for more.

hey, wanna run away together, he asks, grinning, making it half a joke while his heart threatens to choke him, veiny hands on his throat. the most gorgeous man in the world blinks his dark eyes, twitches his big hands against the sheets and touches his hip with two fingers.

the cigarette burns a hole in the carpet and he shatters like a cup against the two points of heat on his skin, spills viscera and blood and secrets, so many secrets, more secrets than cells inside of him, washing them both in filthy, murky red, as the horizon lights itself on fire.

i can’t, says the most gorgeous man in the world, teeth perfect rows of pearls that he would dive to the deepest depth for, drown himself for. i know, he answers, laughing the pain into submission, into a corner, pointing fingers at himself and laughing at the clown, tripping over his own shoes.

outside the sky bursts into colour in a breath-taking display no one sees - the whole world avoiding the sight for a split second, so that everything has changed once they look again. everything has changed and it all stays the same: smoke and darkness for them and the rest for the others.

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[photo ID: zwei screenshots einer notes app; weiße schrift auf dunklem hintergrund. der erste screenshot zeigt den titel eines gedichts, der zweite das gedicht selber. ein transkript folgt unter dem cut.

Endzeitstimmung und Dosenbier

Wir stehen mit zwei Meter Abstand in der einfahrt und du Zuckst die Schultern. Sagst dir geht’s ganz gut. Bisschen Langeweile.

Ich nicke, mein Bier ist warm und Zu hopfig, und mir geht’s richtig Dreckig. Dein arm um meine Schultern Wäre schon willkommen und Bisschen Leute hier, was grillen.

Aber ich sage nur Langeweile, ja. Kein Netflix, sonst auch eher nichts. Ich lese viel. Du nickst. Hast mit Fensterbankgärtnern angefangen. Hab ich auf insta gesehen, aber ich schweige.

Vielleicht geht’s im Sommer schon wieder. Dann gehen wir schwimmen. Ich nicke nur.

/end ID]

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[id: Screenshot of a notes app, white text on dark background; the text reads:

It is all snow in the end.

Tears and sweat are water, are oceans,

And oceans birth clouds

And clouds are snow.

Rain sometimes, but winter seems endless

Here, so snow.

If you fill the ocean with blood,

Would the snow be red from the first

Flake?

Would we need more carnage to make

It red by day and black by night?

Would we need tears to wash it clean?

Two owls call, there is a bear in the woods,

And the fire has settled into the ash, glowing.

The snow is red with it, alive with it.

Alive, alive, alive.

Sweat and tears and blood, an ocean.

The waves break on the shore and it snows. /End id]

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