Johannes Punkt’s Flaskpost

You find your name on the big black wall of soldiers lost, not because you really died, but because there was none among the ranks who could recognize you anymore, and you refused to talk to anyone about anything. You find your name on the bark of that tree, but impossibly high up because that moment when he wrote it there, with his rusty pocketknife and his love, was so long ago that you cannot remember his face. You find your name inscribed on someone else’s skin, your face stretched across someone else’s skull, your air filling someone else’s lungs.