Shooting Stars

[zecke]

I talk about being confused about this thing called life,
something feeling off,
when all I want to say is
I want to be loved.
Loved by someone
who'd sit outside with me the whole night
watching the stars and counting shooting stars
listening to Edwin Rosen.
Scratchy cigarettes and soft kisses.
Loved by someone
who enjoys punk music as much as me
and would walk aimlessly through the city,
pissing off old people just by the way we look,
fantasizing about a better world.
But that is not important,
none of that is.
It's just an ideal in my mind.
I simply want someone to love me.
But that is what I never dare to admit.
Instead I drown my feelings,
drown them in a sweet cocktail
or drown them in a glass of bitter vodka,
smoke them away.
Fife Lana del Rey songs and I fall asleep on the sofa.
So high but yet so low.
My feelings wrapped in cotton whool.
I don't even want a lovestory,
I want to be loved
and that is something entirely different.
And it feels like trying to touch the stars,
they feel so close
and I scream to make them hear me
but the echo of my scream gets lost
in this giant, empty sphere of space and time.
However, as long as I am here,
I will always be hoping for a shooting star to fall down for me.