we know nothing about each other.
we know nothing about the foreboding and the flaw
hiding in the wrinkle
from the petrified smile
of the person on the other side. in the sweat
of our palms we cannot tell
fear of dying and all other
to „how are you?“ we answer
„fine, thanks“, and inside we continue
to tell the story
that has plucked us from our dream.
our looks are homeless, begging
for bread from passers by.