Emily B.

They dared to welcome your gaze over the moor. Not the veiled eyes, from which you rub dreams and nightmares. Did you greet back?

What drew itself into you—springs, rock, creatures, storm, rain, the counting rhymes of the seasons—nothing reprehensible, nothing that couldn’t have found a place in greetings and letters. You did not greet back. That, they could have known, those who know nothing of a solitaire.

I know less than nothing about you. Just one heartbeat, one single heartbeat, close to the eyes, the mouth, and its white chasm, which screamed out more than the world could bear.

I am the spirit who, in dark nights, chafes it’s wrist on the shards of your words at the window. A demon haunting an idol. Let me in.

(Achim Spengler)