Freedom

Sun kissed,

The warm wind skating on my skin

One hand on the shoulder,

The other one holding on tight to this moment.

A day for the books,

In mine nonetheless

Our past months rumbling in my helmet,

Taking me on this ride to where we are heading.

I close my eyes to see

Right here, I am free.

The real thing

Some people will never experience Berlin

Except through stories,

Have their thirst for the thrill quenched

Than by reading.

Close, but never close enough ;

I never saw that sunset,

Just the reflection of it,

And it was just as perfect.

Not all love stories have the happy ending

But that does not make them any less real 

Than the real thing.

The same poem

A new beginning,

A comparable ending

It is the same poem

I keep writing.

The message differs

The titles adjust

One more figure of speech

For picking up a broken piece.

Elusive alterations

Editing the outcome

A plethora of versions 

For my book of poems.

Another round,

Back to square one

Are there any words left

This heart has not said.