Sentimentalism

By Sophia Thieme

sentimentalism museum visits that flooded our minds drunk of new impressions in vibrant cities gin tonics and our own organic dynamic reminiscence making plans building bridges pockets full of the smallest bliss the amber of the chain that you discovered at the flea market feels slick in my hand yellow coloured but not exactly as yellow-orange as the lightening in the attic room I still hear the wooden floor creaking also the timber floor boards shoulder blade kisses little whimpers passionate moans we discovered one another and exposed ourselves in front of each other peeled off worries moulting them like old clothes there’s nothing as youthful as this year nothing will ever be as vivid as this year and won’t grow older in my memory museum visits gigs and jazz - especially the laborious one or music you’re melting together with becoming one my body was in awe of, on, in between or inside your body the gap of verses within important words of important questions later on hot chocolate with cream or a sprinkle of rum watching “das große rennen von belleville” sex in front of an open fire Bauhaus lamps or your parents’ hashish stored in that small metal box the welcoming arms of gardens and families that were never mine the heart flutter when I could smell estragon in the kitchen martin’s impatient voice and your glance that revealed it all you playing the guitar the record that was always playing during dinner in the background my reverberating laugh our specific humour and jokes or platitudes Ruhrpott jagon christmas tree shopping-dragging with siblings the forest which was as green as your green folding bicycles the Ruhr is our love’s witness love is always running fluid especially in Sardinia and Laeso is still on my traveling list one day I’ll be there every clock was ticking incorrectly for us we never made it to that poetry slam together and also never on time but lea liked you immediately and never again has salmon-spinach pasta tasted this delicious we piled up the firewood too unsteadily in the garage tarte flambé dough always rose just as self made dough of freshly baked bread in your own little flat filled with almost nothing but an old mattress this witness of dirty fucks and cigarette butts we are a lot too much to handle you’re everything I’m the one that remains I never want to hand this over would never trade this what happened to our next shared New Year’s Eve plans? thanks for recognizing my battles the ones against my own demons the inner travail turmoils growing pains pancakes with slices of apple inside and a tiny bit of cinnamon time is standing still in berlin

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