It is raining wildly outside. All vulnerable animals have disappeared instantly through my open chest. It was bleeding in the morning when I left home. I could not avoid its worsening and I am bound to take the nowhere train in the electrified white margins of my texts.
I imagine I am waiting for the One and No-one shows up. There is no line in my texts unaware of such sour wine. I drink it over again. Abruptly. Eyes and veins lost, sine die. Subtle pan-nihilism cooling your hands. I remember them perspiring in the first day. I fear dreadfully you do not remember anything and I fear you are right. "Clouds pass and disagree." I do not know the art of the passage. Neither does love, labyrinth of ties.
I had roses, white roses from my mother's garden. I remember my father watering them and his whistling or singing. At a distance, I try desperately to read his lips. Rosa, rosae, rosam, rosae, rosa. And he smiles as a child at the roses. He knew they would have entangled lives.
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The plot thickens
The rain has quickened and chilled our skin. Vulnerable animals have wisely taken cover. Only a fool would bear her chest on a night like this.
I imagined I was waiting for the One, but Someone Else showed up. We shared sweet wine and danced by the reservoir. I will remember this dizziness after the wine has soured. 'It’s cloud illusions I’ll recall.'
My mother also had roses in her garden. In my madness I temporarily forget their thorns.
'I really don’t know clouds at all.'
Merci de ton passage si inspirateur!
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