Your and my impossibilities – had that been love,
my shangrila girl, my socialist sweetheart,
now so many years thereafter –
I only enter time machines by sound and
sepia: back on the wet streets of München,
1982, autumn rain (a merciless one), I‘m
studying the road map, finally, the kitchen
of your sister, all vintage, a bathtub inside,
where we made love, splashing water,
fishes in’n’outside our faraway origins,
but, for fuck‘s sake, I don‘t remember
your sweat, your saliva, only your
and my impossibilities, and
my hands in your hair,
like in that Crimson song.