„Can I live my life from moment to moment?“, I ask my witch as we wait for a thunderstorm to relieve the sky.
One of my favourites tasted like Vanilla.
A moment of Vanilla and burned matches.
In scented candle light, I had been waiting.
My soul had yearned.
The moment I had yearned for had smelled like rain,
had sounded like drumming
on the window of a train.
Some of them don‘t have a taste,
and neither a scent.
Not even a colour,
are gray patches flying by,
because time has to pass.
Filling in the gab.
Waiting for a call.
Dreading a letter.
„How do I live through these?“
Those that don‘t flood the senses?
That don‘t leave a mark on the soul?
„Can I live my life from great moment to moment?“
Collecting them along the way?
Those memories,
that leave a trace in heart and soul and skin?
Always hoping to last long enough,
for the next one to come?
Always flooding the senses,
in fear to miss out on something?
Can I live my life from moment to moment,
hoping for magic to come?
My witch cheers to me with the iced coffee she has just stolen from me.
„You can, but it‘s exhausting!“
Mistress witch writes 