Tell Me the Story of Love

So, tell me the story of love.
Show me the empty space, in which it can evolve. Can you be quiet enough to let it happen?
What is love? In my case, a man, a woman, an empty page. Silence. 
When I can not stop thinking about you. Even at night, I wake up every other hour and I think about you. Thinking is absolutely the wrong word. There are no thoughts. Just a longing, and it is in my entire body and in my entire being. Beyond thoughts. 
I think about you.
Could I
Could you
Could we be young again?
Could I
Could you
Could we pretend,
we never had a complete life without each other. That all this, in the end, did only matter in the sense, that it lead us to each other, finally? A path.
I mean, nothing is really ever meant to be.
Which is a hollow phrase, because the truth is: my entire fucking life, I was running around, thinking, something has to be revealed, something has to be fulfilled. Love. Illusion. Some purpose. I am really good at projecting my feelings onto somebody else. The somebody usually doesn’t even notice. Why would he?
So, tell me the story of love.
Could we be free again? But together? Is that even an option?
In a perfect world, I would meet you tomorrow, or Saturday, in Santa Fe, at the airport. I know, this airport is tiny. But exactly for that reason, it is the perfect place for our first meeting after all those years. We can not miss each other there again. The waiting area has like 5 places. I’ll be sitting on one of them, just for you. I am the old woman, pretending to be a girl. 
We will take a car and head towards Taos, and further down the road, towards Questa. Lets shop groceries in Taos though. Lets also go and see Agnes Martin. 
We will build ourselves a tine house, with a huge glass window and a porch, of course we need a porch, to watch the perfect sunsets every night (how many perfect sunsets will we be able to bear?)
Could I
Could you
Could we be young again?
Could we pretend, we never met before?
Could we pretend, we just found each other, for the first time
And it is not an illusion, which of course, it is.
Sometimes I wonder, if love is always an illusion.
A projection.
A fantasy.
But when two people have matching fantasies about each other, that’s the jackpot. When two people’s projection match, hallulujah!
Tell me the story of love.
A man. A woman. Nothing else. An empty page. A man. A woman. So much silence. So much solitude.
Tell me the story of love. Do not push it. Do not pull it. Let it reveal itself, so I can write it down.


Berlin, Germany

I am a writer, mother, blogger from Berlin. On my blog I write different things, in English and German, often about books, I read, but also poems, essays, whatever crosses my mind.

Susanne BeckerComment