top of page

'Dear Love,' / 'Marbles' / 'runaway stars'

Photo by Sharon Pittaway on Unsplash

Dear Love,

I was expected to expose myself.

Instead, I checked the weather forecast –

Leipzig is cold today, a hint of frost

hangs above the park,

each blade of grass tipped white.

Beneath the bridge, that favourite drinking spot,

where water runs slowly in its riverbed,

the White Magpie wraps herself in mist.

A few miles West, Plagwitz will be asleep,

a deep Saturday stupor rising from the streets

into my slanted attic room, where toothpaste

covers bald spots on the walls.

Here, someone taught me love

was a thing of the dark, a taste

of morning breath behind closed blinds.

I am writing to tell you

I don’t believe that anymore.

~ Josefine Stargardt