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