Souring

October is my favourite, and my least favourite month,
it is the month where my blood drips, into new time zones,
after my own sleeping mouth, speaks of stifling love.
(I still wear his clothes)
It’s the month of Halloween, after all. My nightly dreams
are pushing me into packing my bags and leaving,
this continent, this city.
(I have to keep moving)
Berlin: my days are too fickle, too neurotic.
(Way too little sun)
I can’t be precise, I apologise. I don’t have a reason, no motivation at all,
except that it is October, my favourite and my least
favourite month. My life one moon-shaped superstition.
I know they find me illogical.
But stasis is souring into me,
a lemony love. My dreams are flaking frivolous
like the paint on my apartment’s wall.
I need to throw away all my clothes,
I need to get away from it all. I don’t trust these
people who tell me they love me.
(It’s all fucking dead love)
I don’t trust Berlin: too fickle, too fun. Not another month
in this city. This city, my ghostly true love.
So I’ll run far away. 19 hours by plane.