In another life, in a faraway country on unfamiliar lands, we are good friends.
I am not cursed to break everything I touch,
And you are not an arson who burns down homes of those who love you.
Your voice is not the last cry of a child in an abandoned home and when I shout your name, the
answer is not an accusation.
There is a version of you here that does not shiver at the sound of my name.
There are no rules here – no unfulfilled wishes, no conscience to stop me from holding your arm.
In this life, I am not a lost traveller on a path that reaches no destination.
In this life, I look up at the sky and the clouds are not shaped like axes destined to bruise me.
I am not burdened by a glorious purpose – I am but a simple man,
Like a million others, who is not punished for the crimes he did not commit.
In this life, I am unfettered by the sense of guilt;
I sit somewhere in a café with you by my side and a cup of coffee in front of me,
And on weekends I remember what it feels like to live in the skin of a man who is not dead.
In this life, my house is not along a dirt path that ends in an abyss –
I am not a madman gripped by unreason – I have not let my mother down and I am not a stain on
the legacy of my father.
My hands are warm and my body has not withered,
My love is not lost because I have not spent years turning strangers into idols that I worship.
In this life,
In a melancholic midnight, under the burden of endless joys,
I sit by the window and wonder that in another life,
I am a barren landscape in bleak midwinter;
And you are a beautiful autumn tree neck deep in contempt for me.
And for a moment, I am frightened on what I could be
In another life.
Photography by: jean wimmerlin on Unsplash
