She saw her there.
In the coldest of rooms.
And envied her deeply.
The woman conjuring up death whilst alive.
It comes from all sides.
She is a rock, but craves to be a loose tooth in forwarding waters.
She caresses her cheeks, the cold skin.
Never recuperating old memories.
No. Recreating, reinventing them.
Washing her hands clean, making herself blind a posteriori.
She is in awe of death, her body a sole tension, the past is a long robe behind her.
The mother with her long nails.
The father with the idealised patience.
A pinch of love.
Holding on to the minimalism.
Maybe she was happy once, nobody knows.
Smashed against every rock imaginable, landing on wrong laps and shores.
Decisions never hers, responsibility rejected by her brain.
Culture of the couch, of snoring silence, begging ghosts to come.
She is staring at her dead face.
Thinking in comparisons.
Lusting after the peace portrayed in eversleeping features.
Oblivious of her own heart that keeps pumping against her will.
“Das Opfer” by Caspar Ritter (1861-1923)