Dreams

I was running, pounding Reinprechtsdorfer Straße
to your apartment, past the coffeehouse
whose name I can't recall (it begins with the letter "M"),
past the shop displaying pink and white negligee.

The black-blue skies circling my ankles
beginning to feel like weights.
I wasn't too sure if it were night or still day
'tis lack of day
light.

It became sharper in a matter of seconds
why I was running, I was running after you,
because I knew and I had seen you.

You turned left to your apartment,
and with a crisp turn of the key
you were gone.

I don't run after buses so I don't run after people
but I found myself running after you
and now here I am consciously calling
your name to the meaningless wood of a door.

The intercom was a thing I never learned
to conquer like the many others of driving
of Photoshop
of xlsx.

A man was coming out of the apartment,
holding a big bag of laundry.
Balancing his clothes and the heavy door,
he held it open.

Vielen dank, relief swam over me.
Bitte, he replied as he walked away.

I don't speak German.
Even upon T's return from Berlin,
he asked me what the equivalent
for welcome was and I had looked at him
 like he was crazy.

Here I am dreaming in German.
You emerged shortly unfazed unfeeling
in an exhausted green coloured ringer shirt
with a vintage print.

Where are you going? 
You waited twenty seconds to reply
fumbling for an excuse
like searching for keys in your pocket.

Going to meet Andrew, you said.

Where were you before this?
You looked at me and couldn't say anything.
We both knew you didn't have to at 650am in the morning.