Write me a sign

If only a bird would write it in the sky
That I am to live and not to dye
If only a text would praise my day
Or an email the least to say
My body cramped up in pain
My soul praising the rain
I am waiting for a sign from dear god, dear buddha, dear higher spirits from within
It is you I am praying to be here
It is me I am missing and fearing to be near

Sunday bloody Sunday

Sunday – you used to be my favorite day. Sunday you were my lover and my friend. I anticipated you for six days and now you are here and I don’t know what to do with you. You arrived and I had no use for you, no plan, no lover to stay with long in the morning, no partner to grab for breakfast, no man to hold his hand and stroll to the usual Sunday spots, no friend to share the designer fair with. You showed some sun, you tease, but gladly there was the ice cold wind to remind me that it wasn’t like any good old Sunday, this was a lonely one. The wind kept slapping me across the face to wake up and face reality. You are gone. I missed you today like I miss the smell of German bread, I missed you today like I miss the hug of my mother, so deep, so embedded into my flesh. A sensory memory of you is stored in my skin and will not leave me, the stand by mode has not set in yet or ever will. I had a dream last night I never had before, so sensual, so vivid, so real. I spend a lot of time on your right, beautiful, naked chest. I inhaled your smell, pet you with my face, let my cheek take in your cells. I kissed you all around and it was so real, so real, so real – It was real. It was you. It was not your face, but your smell, your skin, your body, you you you all over me, and me all over you. How come you are so far and so near, how come you are there and not here.