Last October I fell in love with a german boy, lost in my city.
We didn’t speak much, conversation was diluted to its purest form, fingers pointing and vague inclinations of the head. His jeans skimmed his legs all the way down to the bottom where delicate hands had rolled the hems three times, perfectly aligned. And his eyes were almost black on the days when i could bring myself to look directly into them.
When I sang in the kitchen on the good mornings he would lie in bed eyes wide, humming harmonies just quiet enough that I could pretend not to hear. So I didn’t stop. It taught me that I cannot sing for other people, it must belong to me and only me. Or perhaps that boys with freckled wrists are gentle enough not to rampage all over my serenity on the rare occasion that it graces us.  I was convinced we would be together always and as a fiercely independent nineteen year old feminist still held some rather rose tinted views of the world.
He would draw my ankles thinner than I know they are, and my hair at an almost egyptian level of conformity, though my fringe never sat the way I wanted it. When he encouraged me to draw some more I thought nothing of his criticism in equal forms.
It ended in fireworks and a last minute ticket back from Stuttgart. His mother did not approve of my tattoos and I couldn’t stomach the way he cowered from her. When I went for coffee he would wait outside, on principle. He did not understand the smell of home, or the things I would sacrifice for familiarity.

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