Ceci n’est pas un au revoir


I’m not going to miss anything about you

Your thorns caressing through my skin and bounding towards the white sun

frozen with lies, like

Mother is the sea

like kisses are butterflies salutationing the morning before bustling off to market

to hide behind clouds of crême

as if when the sky is raining he

is a riff away from crying but

the heart of Paris is a breast au féminin.

I wanted to write you in your own language

your diamond-threaded web where privacy and poverty inhabit the same skeleton, where douleur wears mascara, where time joins hands, a chain of journeys ligamented by hours, a single organism breathing one dream,

one lie


contains the reach for stars at night, but not the rebound

When je suis tombé amoureuse

on ne s’est pas aimé

We were not loved

I am fell.

I wanted to write to you en français, démontrer rien qu’une fois de plus que j’ai compris, que je n’ai jamais oublié même le gratte de tes cils sur ma

peau qui fleurit, qui se dessèche et je

voulais te faire voir comment le verbe aimer demeure entre les lignes de l’horaire mais

ya no puedo.


Image sources in order of appearance:

http://kingarthur.wikia.com/wiki/Iseult (Painting Tristan and Isolde by William Waterhouse

By Jean Fouquet – http://expositions.bnf.fr/fouquet/grand/f011.htm, Public Domain, https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=204646


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s