, Earlier, when I last saw Malte, for the last time the brain and the veins full of red wine and beer, I said a sentence to him, always, in consciousness, that it's my last sentence for him.
In front of the coffee bar Mocha, at four at night, at Thun Castle in front of the ancient prison bars, outside by the lake, in passing: I approached him, rolled or flew, No, I did not know, how. It was sinking, in that moment, by, finished and consumed by the night, looked up from his last beer and gave me that moment of listening.
Mann, he was so full and so withdrawn. And yet I felt this space with him, this extra space. It seemed to me, as if he was listening differently, from far away; and yet I had to steal his ear, about him, Malta, secretly kissing him one last time through my last sentence.
I could have been doused with compote, when I finally got his attention on me. When Malte listened to me, then it was, as if there was the most precise silence, but at the same time his aura ensnared music. Echo gave off his laconic silence, its diabolical, sad eyes, I should have been towed away. I saw nothing more, felt nothing more, what happened outside of his aura, next to us. Was woven into his ear, in his word, into the touch of his carved arm; with Malte it was like being drawn to a magnet in slow motion.
The pace of slowness, in which I could perish.
Never again could I speak to anyone like that. Sinking into such an abyss. Others, who came after, I felt to the bottom, quick and fleeting, I felt, as far as her consciousness reached and as far as her brief touch. I threw myself on the ground in front of some. I was so young. And Malte was gone. Now I wanted to carry it within myself, wanted to be like him, his gestures, its stratifications, its trembling deep warmth, the cynicism, with whom he had cut me off, incorporate into me.
Sometimes, when someone approached me, at the end of a chaotic night, Confident and advanced in wine, ulkig, in a courtyard, with one last sentence, I did so, as if I could give the stranger this space, drink his strange intimacy. I didn't swing back, I took it up, like a kiss, no longer letting go, until I mastered it.
Then I let go and walked away, felt empty and cried for my malt. I couldn't be, could not incorporate into me, because he was someone else, not me, very easily.
Us (me and the later) I even got in the way with an unspeakable ego, of which I wish, at least I would have stolen it from Malte. I do not want to say, that I wasn't devoted or that love became a game for me, for my body it was a tremendous experience….but I was still there and pushed into the middle, I didn't want equality anymore, (after Malte), but only give my intoxication to them and above all to me.
And sentences were often so endless…. fizzling out.
Okay, I may have seen it sometime after all. And I caught myself with one last sentence.
And I'm still in that last sentence. But in contrast to Malte, which I in wine and beer, vomited each of my last sentences, and never missed an opportunity, drunk and unbounded, at night, to bind me to him, in open spaces,one last time with one last sentence …
I'll probably keep that last sentence to myself this time. I will let the time pass and maybe see, what happens to a sentence, which cannot be given for free and cannot be taken.
Whatever this last sentence is called.
When you stop speaking the last few sentences, in time they may lose their meaning within you.
Everything gets loose. And the rose fades into an unsatisfied peace.
That is never, ever that, what I wanted.
I wanted to bring the moments back to life with my last sentences.
And the one with Malte, back then in the nights, should never end.
(28.9.2020)