Berlin is the fatal flame and I am the moth flying once more into the night to go back and burn my wings again

November 12, 2016 § Leave a comment

Berlin is the fatal flame, and I am the moth flying once more into the night to go back and burn my wings again. I love my beloved, but I love her more from a cold and lonely distance. I want to cut myself off from what I love, so the longing and sadness become thick and rich and opulent, like biting down on a loose tooth when you are a child so you can taste the blood despite how much it hurts. Absence makes the heart grow fonder but absinthe makes the tart grow fonder. Perhaps I can only love what I am absent from. Only long for what I cannot have. If necessary I will wait until I cannot have it before I start wanting it.
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