Art: Kopf-Stein-Pflaster by Timm Ulrich

To each part of a poem, to each word is the blood
To spill inside a sentence; and be whole in its gaps
To house-in the disease, to let it breathe in the cut
To love I live for the fire, and from the ashes I burn

Cold calls sentimental all that heat for the stove
For love I’m falling under, for your love is a home
Cold never calls hunger, at night fosters alone
For love is more a wish than a noun in the stone

About the text: More recent interpretations on love that’s more about longing than having. I was inspired by a few poems that try to define love and tried to give it a shot. It’s kind of a fuck you too with its last line, but I don’t think anyone would get it. I was going to scrap all of it because I was too depressed to finish it, but I liked that line so much that I think I’m keeping it like this. A bit halfway done, but it’s okay. And the poem… It’s faceless, really. I like to believe that.