I miss Berlin like I would miss the womb of another woman;
(if I could imagine) the unraveling reality of it.
I miss its close society:
the pre-war closets and graffiti’d walls
the secrets kept wide open on the kitchen tables
and the wine that made these strangers all fast friends.
I miss Berlin
much like I missed the idea of me being born Spanish
or Costa Rican
and having taken in the afternoon chais and middlenoon siestas and post-night/pre-morning
dancing until dawn,
amid giant boulders and thin alleys and tree-laden rooftops.
I miss Berlin like I miss the sliding door
I could have (might have) missed
on a platform asking for passengers,
trains travelling in all directions one-by-one
all through the post-night dregs of early morning.
Directionfull, and me, directionless.
I miss its small cafes and unabashed mothers
its vintage shops and Russian discos
its factories and rivers
its musical revolutions and historical resolutions
its efficacy and cacophony
its hindered beauty and its rushed development
its emptiness and fullness
my desire and
for being awake through tidal waves
through sun beams and broken beams and
fires in their opalescent collective souls.