#Petits poèmes

[astredempouck]

Recueillement, Charles Baudelaire

Sois sage, ô ma Douleur, et tiens-toi plus tranquille. Tu réclamais le Soir ; il descend ; le voici : Une atmosphère obscure enveloppe la ville, Aux uns portant la paix, aux autres le souci. Pendant que des mortels la multitude vile, Sous le fouet du Plaisir, ce bourreau sans merci, Va cueillir des remords dans la fête servile, Ma Douleur, donne-moi la main ; viens par ici, Loin d’eux. Vois se…

[cheminer-poesie-cressant]

(Une partie de campagne, 1936, Jean Renoir)

petite histoire poétique du cinéma, les réminiscences des images

.

Courir sous les bras des arbres,

s'échapper de l'ombre,

vision fugace de printemps,

un rouge serré à la taille

la liberté bourdonnante plein les yeux.

.

(Dans la portée des ombres, extrait)

© Pierre Cressant

(jeudi 6 octobre 2005)

[ditesdonc]

Histoire de marc de café

Texte d’Yvanne Trouillet

Pause dans le fauteuil et dans ma tête

Du moins c'est ce que je souhaite

Parce que là j'en ai marre

Aux canards

De tout un tas de choses

Cellules grises moroses

Du manque d'énergie

De l'inaccompli

Du quotidien qui prend le dessus

Des réalisations suspendues

Je commence tout et je finis rien

Que d'éparpillement nom d'un chien !

Rien de constructif

Rien de créatif

Je me morfonds et je me juge

Pic et pic, critiques en déluge

Stop là ! Ça suffit les sornettes

Je me lâche les baskets

A onze heures passées

C'est l'heure du café

Au fond de la tasse du marc

De quoi raconter une histoire ?

Un jeune garçon aux cheveux blonds décoiffés. Ses yeux, lumineux, fixent l'horizon. On dirait Le Petit Prince.

- Regarde ailleurs, qu'il me lance, plus vaste, plus loin.

Je fronce les sourcils :

- Viser les grands espaces ? Respirer l'air marin ?

Me vient l'image d'un homme, tout petit, face aux vagues tumultueuses d'un immense océan. Souvenir d'un tableau de ? Période romantique, cours d'histoire de l'art. Oui, mais encore ? Il faudrait que je cherche sur Internet…

- Eh, il est temps de sortir du cadre, me dit Le Petit Prince. Descends de ta falaise, rejoins-moi sur la plage, viens courir dans le vent, dans les vagues. Ouvre les bras et ton coeur, respire le large. Tu ne te sens pas plus libre d'être ainsi ? Tu ne te sens pas plus vivante ?

Bizarrement, je reste interdite. Et puis j'entends un bruit de mastication, et puis je sens un souffle chaud. Tiens, une vache. En train de savourer de l'herbe grasse. Sensation de plénitude. Présence au monde. Tout est là.

- Voilà, c'est ça, acquiesce Le Petit Prince dans un sourire.

Boîte aux lettres - Bouvesse-Quirieu, 2023.

Trept, 2020

[luma-az]

Jour de fête

Défi d’écriture 30 jours pour écrire, 14 août 

Thème : changement/crieront-ils mon nom

. .

Que la joie éclate dans les rues,

Fête, liesse et allégresse !

Le temps du Changement est venu

Annoncé par la Prophétesse

.

Que la joie éclate dans les rues,

Que les hommes crient leur victoire,

Qu’ils crient à gorge rompue,

Ou sinon gare…

.

Que la joie éclate dans les rues,

Et sur le passage de ma charrette,

Qu’on crie, qu’on siffle, qu’on hue,

Jusqu’à ce que le bourreau coupe ma tête

.

Que la joie éclate dans les rues,

Et parmi les éclats de voix,

Crieront-ils mon nom comme celui d’un déchu,

Ou comme celui qui fut leur roi ?

.

Mais prend garde, toi qui as invoqué le Changement,

Prends garde à voir ton souhait exhaussé,

Toi qui te pense leur sauveuse naïvement,

Et qui, pour célébrer la Mort, as demandé

Que la joie éclate dans les rues.

.

.

[tealviscaria]

Je suis en train de parcourir ma "poésie" (un trop grand mot pour ces textes). Elle est pas terrible la plupart de temps, mais parfois j'ai essayé d'écrire des textes comiques et je rigole tellement à mes blagues nulles. (Je me marre sûrement juste parce que je ne me souviens de rien de ce que j'ai écrit.)

Mais pourquoi je fais ce post. Je viens de trouver un poème qui est en fait une fanfiction de VDF et ça me fume de voir Renard, Raph et Henry qui parlent en rimes.

J'aimerais tellement voir un épisode spécial comme ça :D

[astaeris-in-the-stars]

Les spirales d’yeux infernales

Se meuvent contre ma rétine.

Ténèbres de térébenthine

Qui s’enroulent en piège létal.

[zaunwelt]

Le coup d'œil

La lumière du ciel est le sel toujours éternel pleines d’ étincelles.

pour @caeliriva​ (Salzlicht im Auge)

[drqueenb]

Petit roi

Dans mon reinaume Au sommet des marches neuves Un bout de ventre qui pointe Les yeux qui percent La poigne qui serre Le rire qui éclate Le silence qui parle Le soleil hivernal Nous dorent Aussi timidement Que nos êtres Se mirent et se moirent Je voulais te voir Alors j’ai gravi la montagne Pour replonger en cocagne De toi, mon petit roi

[billetcognitif]

Rien

Se lever en retard, chaque matin, c’est trop, Ces draps toujours froissés, rien faire comme il faut, Même changer le lit, pas le temps, tout s’emballe. Choisir ses vêtements dans la pile de sale, Penser à la lessive un jour moins haletant, Dans la machine aussi, un tas moisi attend. Quel petit déjeuner ? les placards sont tous vides, Au moins, ça peut aider à être plus rapide Pour attraper le bus, non, encore raté. Chaque rien contribue à tout mal s’emboiter ; Au boulot, ascension de monts de paperasse, Fin de cordée, encerclement par des rapaces. Chaque rien alourdit le ralentissement, Et la pause à sauter se fait en rampement. Rattraper, s’excuser, décider, le temps file, Je cours après moi-même, après rien fois dix mille.

[mercuriicultores]

Charles Baudelaire – Les petits poèmes en prose, XXXIII. Enivrez-vous

Il faut être toujours ivre, tout est là; c'est l'unique question. Pour ne pas sentir l'horrible fardeau du temps qui brise vos épaules et vous penche vers la terre, il faut vous enivrer sans trêve.

Mais de quoi? De vin, de poésie, ou de vertu à votre guise, mais enivrez-vous!

Et si quelquefois, sur les marches d'un palais, sur l'herbe verte d'un fossé, vous vous réveillez, l'ivresse déjà diminuée ou disparue, demandez au vent, à la vague, à l'étoile, à l'oiseau, à l'horloge; à tout ce qui fuit, à tout ce qui gémit, à tout ce qui roule, à tout ce qui chante, à tout ce qui parle, demandez quelle heure il est. Et le vent, la vague, l'étoile, l'oiseau, l'horloge, vous répondront, il est l'heure de s'enivrer ; pour ne pas être les esclaves martyrisés du temps, enivrez-vous, enivrez-vous sans cesse de vin, de poésie, de vertu, à votre guise.

[HIS] Tienes que estar siempre borracho, todo está ahí; esa es la única pregunta. Para no sentir la horrible carga del tiempo que te rompe los hombros y te dobla contra la tierra, tienes que emborracharte sin parar. ¿Pero de qué? De vino, de poesía o de virtud, a su gusto, ¡pero emborráchate! Y si alguna vez, en la escalinata de un palacio, sobre la hierba verde de un foso, te despiertas, la embriaguez ya disminuida o pasada, pregúntale al viento, a la ola, a la estrella, al pájaro, al reloj; a todo lo que gotea, a todo lo que gime, a todo lo que rueda, a todo lo que canta, a todo lo que habla, pregúntale qué hora es. Y el viento, la ola, la estrella, el pájaro, el reloj, te responderá: "es la hora de emborracharse"; para no ser los esclavos mártires del tiempo, embriagaos, embriagaos sin cesar de vino, de poesía, de virtud, como queráis.

[dixvinsblog]

Muriel Odoyer - Petit poème sur la lune

Un rien levée, un rien étoiléeAu-dessus, sans paraître, au temps plus fatiguéeElle brille au firmament sans jamais dévoilerLe mystère de son âme à jamais constellée La lune se sert des rêvesEt glisse dans nos nuits un peu de cette sèveQui nous surprend toujours, quand, dans le jour s’achèveLa portée des images que, parfois, l’on abrège Un rien perdue, un rien inconnueC’est en la regardant qu’on…

[cheminer-poesie-cressant]

source : Erik Seiler @etrangeenferdelabeaute

l’iris ne se fane pas ; aucun pétale ne tombe ; simplement il se rétracte du monde ; en se pliant et repliant à l’infini ; si bien qu’à la fin on ne distingue plus rien de la fleur qu’il a exposé ; il est devenu un point de matière au bord de la lumière qu'il a dévoré ; rétractation que l’on pourrait confondre avec un bourgeon ; le bourgeon de la mort bien replié comme celui de la vie

© Pierre Cressant

(mardi 9 mars 2023)

[revuetraversees]

Thierry Radière, Poèmes à Tilda, illustrations de Joy Eau, Les Carnets Du Dessert De Lune, collection Petite Lune, 2022.

Une chronique de Lieven Callant Thierry Radière, Poèmes à Tilda, illustrations de Joy Eau, Les Carnets Du Dessert De Lune, collection Petite Lune, 2022. « Irremplaçable est le poète, car il prolonge le rêve à l’infini ». Gary Klang Par cette exergue commence l’album de poèmes à Tilda. Le lecteur est prévenu: le rêve sera prolongé à l’infini. Dès la première page, il est invité à changer son…

[praline1968]

Mon beau Charly,

Mon petit bouchon,

Ma beauté suprême,

Ma petite merveille,

Il y a 1 an aujourd’hui, tu prenais ton envol à 3h40 alors que tu étais dans mes bras.

Tu étais agité, j’ai essayé de t’apaiser mais je n’y suis pas arrivée à mon plus grand désespoir.

Malgré des signes d’affaiblissement que j’avais mis sur le compte d’un début de vieillesse,

Je n’ai pas vu, senti, compris, qu’une tumeur grandissait dans ton ventre depuis des mois.

Le poids des regrets et de la culpabilité me ronge un peu plus chaque jour.

Ton départ est le plus grand malheur de ma vie terrestre, nous étions si fusionnels.

Tu étais ma boussole, tu étais ma lumière, aujourd’hui, sans toi, je suis perdue dans le noir.

J’ai perdu le goût de vivre, plus rien n’a d’intérêt ni de sens dorénavant.

J’attends juste la fin au plus vite en espérant que je pourrai enfin te retrouver.

🎤 Michel Pépé ~ Le coeur des anges 🎧

(Petit poème que j’ai écrit pour toi le 24 décembre 2022)

🩵 Mon Charly 🩵

Il y a 9 ans, tu apparaissais et venais combler ma vie,

Tél un don venu du ciel, tu rallumais mes jours et mes nuits,

Pour moi, revenait alors le goût de vivre, l’énergie,

Un vrai bonheur, un éclair de temps et de vie qui déjà s’enfuit,

Et me laisse dans un silence, une solitude et une détresse infinie.

Mon petit bichon,

Mon adorable Charly,

Aides moi à vivre sans toi 🙏🏻

Petit chien de caractère, petit être d’exception,

Tes grands yeux noirs respiraient l’intelligence,

Coquin, joueur, espiègle, bavard et râleur,

Tu t’exprimais toujours avec ferveur,

Florilège d’intonations sonores,

Tu t’affirmais avec assurance, énergie et passion,

T’avoir dans mon existence fut une extraordinaire chance.

Mon petit bichon,

Mon adorable Charly,

Aides moi à vivre sans toi 🙏🏻

Tes mimiques, ta joie de vivre, tes discours, ta drôlerie,

Emplissait la maison de joie, de rires et de fantaisie,

Ta démarche aérienne si gracieuse, telle une élégante danseuse,

Ton majestueux panachon exprimait ton humeur toujours joyeuse,

Ta présence nous inondait d’amour et rayonnait d’une manière inouïe.

Mon petit bichon,

Mon adorable Charly,

Aides moi à vivre sans toi 🙏🏻

Ce si triste et douloureux dernier soir,

Malgré ton hospitalisation, je t’ai ramené dans ta maison, près des tiens,

Je ne voulais pas que tu restes à la clinique sans personne ni rien,

Seul dans cette cage, dans la peur, l’angoisse, le froid et le noir,

Je ne sais pas si ma décision fût la bonne,

J’espère juste que ce choix aurait aussi été le tien.

Mon petit bichon,

Mon adorable Charly,

Aides moi à vivre sans toi 🙏🏻

La nuit de ce 22 décembre qui a vu s’éteindre ta lumière,

Quand ton souffle s’est subitement arrêté,

Et que ton petit corps dans mes bras a soudain cessé de s’agiter,

J’ai senti ton esprit s’envoler, tu étais enfin libéré.

J’ai alors ressenti cet indescriptible vide abyssal où s’arrête l’univers,

Incommensurable et insupportable déchirure qu’à jamais j’aurai du mal à porter.

Mon petit bichon,

Mon adorable Charly,

Aides moi à vivre sans toi 🙏🏻

A présent, il me reste les médicaments pour ne pas sombrer,

Pour parvenir à trouver le sommeil et ne plus penser,

Malheureusement, chaque jour, il faut bien se réveiller,

Retrouver et affronter cette terrible réalité,

Cette douleur immense, il faudra beaucoup de temps pour l’effacer 💔

Mon petit bichon,

Mon adorable Charly,

Aides moi à vivre sans toi 🙏🏻

A jamais, pour toujours, je t’aime mon Charly 💕 💞

J’espère te retrouver bientôt pour l’éternité dans l’amour infini 🙏🏻

[padfootagain]

Love in Verses (XIII)

Chapter 13: ‘So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.’

Hi! Here is new chapter! Andrew’s reaction to the kiss…

I hope you like this chapter! Tell me what you think!

****

Pairing: Hozier x fem!reader (professor!AU)

Warnings: slow burn, angst, hurt, hurt/comfort, tooth-rotting fluff in later chapters, some scenes in later chapters will have heavy sexual themes even if it’s not explicit nsfw description, so minors here

Summary: Your life seems perfect. You're engaged, your career is thriving as you become an assistant professor at Trinity College, and this Andrew Hozier-Byrne you're sharing an office with seems to be a nice guy you hope to call a friend soon. Life seems to be smiling at you... until everything goes sour. When your fiancé breaks up with you, your perfect world shatters. And when your colleague also gets his heart broken soon after, your shared office seems to be a curse rather than a blessing. But Andrew seems determined to mend your broken hearts... Will things finally go according to plan?

Word Count: 2465

Masterlist for the series – Hozier’s masterlist – Main masterlist

Be drunk

You have to be always drunk. That's all there is to it—it's the only way. So as not to feel the horrible burden of time that breaks your back and bends you to the earth, you have to be continually drunk.

But on what? Wine, poetry or virtue, as you wish. But be drunk.

And if sometimes, on the steps of a palace or the green grass of a ditch, in the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again, drunkenness already diminishing or gone, ask the wind, the wave, the star, the bird, the clock, everything that is flying, everything that is groaning, everything that is rolling, everything that is singing, everything that is speaking. . .ask what time it is and wind, wave, star, bird, clock will answer you: "It is time to be drunk! So as not to be the martyred slaves of time, be drunk, be continually drunk! On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish."

Charles Baudelaire, translation by Louis Simpson from Modern Poets of France: A Bilingual Anthology, originally published in Les petits poèmes en prose as “Enivrez-vous”, 1864

Andrew fell asleep out of exhaustion at one point, after tossing and turning for too long. But then, he woke up at dawn, around the time the sun was slowly turning the sky from inky to golden, and he couldn’t go back to sleep.

You had kissed him.

He let out a long exhale as he thought of the scene, pictured himself back on your sofa, with too much alcohol in his veins. Instead of your white ceiling, he could see your features all over again; from your messy hair to the burning fire in your gaze and your inviting lips. And then you were kissing him, he remembered closing his eyes without thinking. He remembered how his brain short-circuited then, how he forgot about everything in the world except for your lips on his and the warmth of your body against his own. And then your skin under his fingers, the softness of your hair, the brush of your breathing. He could have kissed you for hours, and perhaps he did, he couldn’t remember how long it lasted. Too long to be meaningless, that was for sure. Too long for him to pretend even to himself that it was unwanted.

And then he went to the bathroom in an attempt to gather his wits, but when he finally felt calmer again, once he had slowed down his heartrate, and he was walking back into the room, you were nowhere to be found. The door to your bedroom was closed, he guessed you had found refuge there.

His feet took him in front of the forbidden room, he stared at the imperfections carved in the wood of the door, the drops in the white paint. He raised his hand, fist closed, held it there for a moment, up in the air. But when he moved it closer to the door, his palm opened, seemingly on its own accord, and he didn’t knock. He merely rested his hand against the wood, thought about how soft your skin was, and remained standing there for a moment.

Should he try to come in? And for what? Talk about it? Huh… talk about what? There was nothing to talk about. You were drunk. You were drunk, and had acted without thinking and it didn’t mean a thing. You wanted Frank, and he wanted Samantha. You were colleagues, it would make everything complicated, too much so to be worth it. And anyway… anyway, there wasn’t even a reason to think about work. You didn’t want him. And he didn’t want you. You wanted to get your exes back, and you would, you had made an alliance for that. There was nothing to discuss about the kiss, about how much he liked it, about how he imagined knocking on your door now, and you opening it, and him kissing you again...

This was madness… he ought to control himself, to focus on his real goal, to fall back to reason. It was a mistake. You had made a mistake, and he ought to forget all about it.

He went to bed in silence, walking away from your door without knocking, unknowing of your struggle on the other side, of how much you hesitated to go knock on his door to kiss him again.

Instead, he went to the other bedroom, closed the door, and he fell asleep at long last, exhaustion and alcohol finally catching up with him.

And now, there he was, lying in a bed in your home. He couldn’t hear any sound coming from the rest of your flat, and he wasn’t surprised. It was too early, and it was the weekend, and you had gotten drunk last night. You would probably wake up only in a few hours, and he decided that it would be best if he weren’t in your home when you got up. So, he sat up, a migraine piercing his skull after the excess of drinking from the previous night. He groaned as he got up, dizzy, head spinning as he rearranged the messy sheets, but he then moved to the door anyway.

He walked as quietly as he could in your home, allowed himself to drink a glass of water before gathering his things and leaving. He left a note on your kitchen table for you to find in the morning.

Thanks for letting me stay the night. I had a great time with you, thanks for the wonderful whiskey!

I’ll see you on Monday at the office.

Andy.

PS: there’s no need to mention again what happened last night. We were both drunk, we weren’t thinking straight. I’m not angry, nor upset. Let’s just forget about it, and never drink so much whiskey ever again.

Once he had gathered his things, was ready to depart, he threw one last glance towards the closed door of your bedroom. He ignored the tugging at his heart that came with him looking away, and leaving you behind.

You had kissed him.

No matter how hard Andrew tried not to think about it, he couldn’t forget it. Couldn’t move passed it. Couldn’t erase the feeling of your lips on his, your fingers in his hair, the weight of your body leaning against his, the warmth of your breath fanning over his chin, the taste of your tongue as it slid over his…

He heaved a sigh, closed his eyes. Lying on his sofa, with his feet hanging over the edge, the furniture too small for his long frame, Andrew kept on replaying the scene in his head. He had spent the rest of his day trying not to think about you. He had taken a long walk with Elwood despite the rain, called his parents, called his brother, played some guitar, prepared a few things for his upcoming classes next week. He had kept himself busy, but it wasn’t working. You were always there, at the back of his mind. Now that the afternoon was slowly fading into evening, that the sun was almost gone and leaving behind its rays the light specks of starlight, Andrew was running out of excuses to avoid thinking about you. Now that he lied on his sofa, staring at his ceiling, all he could think of was that kiss. Or well, those kisses, rather. He would have been lying, had he pretended that what had happened had only lasted for one kiss. You had spent several minutes like this. Yeah, a long time. Christ...

He needed to forget this moment because it meant nothing. You were drunk. He was drunk. You were both drunk, not thinking straight, and after an awful night and torturing weeks of loneliness you both needed to feel less alone for a second. And that was it. Two friends who were attempting to cope with heartbreak, two friends who felt lonely, two friends who did something silly out of intoxication.

Nothing more.

And anyway, Andrew didn’t want you, he wanted Sam. He wanted Sam. Beautiful, funny, smart, impetuous Sam. The Sam who had been with him for eight years, who had been there through the most important changes of his life, Sam who made him wait but it was alright he could wait for her. Sam who didn’t share his interests, but that was okay, they had other things in common and he liked listening to her talk about what she loved.

He didn’t want you. Even if you were so fucking smart, it made his brain tingle in the best way to talk with you about literally anything. Even if you shared most of his interests and were curious about the things he loved that you knew nothing about. Even if you were hilarious, one of the few people able to make him genuinely laugh these days. Even if you were so damn strong, even now, even with your heart broken and your life in pieces. Even if you were beautiful, sometimes he couldn’t get passed that fact. Even if you were kind, the type of kindness that made him believe in humankind…

No, no, no, no! He wanted Sam. He wanted Sam, this was simply a mistake. He would not bring it up again, he would tell you nothing about it, he would ignore that it had happened altogether. You had shared a moment, you had shared a kiss, but it was a mere instant, a flicker, gone too fast, programmed to die out. A shooting star. One moment of solace that faded as quickly as it had appeared.

He tried to picture Sam instead, painted her face against his eyelids. But as soon as he didn’t consciously force himself to think of her, your lips were burning his again, and your hands cradled his cheeks, your skin so warm against his…

He opened his eyes, sat up in a jolt.

This was ridiculous. Utterly ridiculous. He was in love with Sam, he wanted her back, that was what this whole arrangement with you was about. And you wanted someone else too, you wanted Frank, you didn’t want Andrew…

Without thinking, his gaze drifted towards his coffee table and the smartphone that sat there. He touched the screen, making his lockscreen light up, a picture of Sam grinning appearing. He checked his notifications without unlocking his phone, but there was nothing. You hadn’t called, hadn’t texted. Which was normal, there was nothing to discuss. You were probably busy anyway, you had mentioned that you had some chores to do today, and after the excesses of the previous night, you would need some rest. Besides, he had already told you not to mention the kiss again, so.

Well, kisses…

He tried very hard to deny that he was disappointed as he locked his phone. He couldn’t do it. He missed you. Which was crazy, because he had seen you last night, and he would see you tomorrow at work. He was just being silly. He needed to get it together… it was just a kiss. Nothing would come out of it.

None of you wanted a new relationship, you both wanted your exes, you both wanted what you had lost. You didn’t want to find anything, you wanted to claim back what was yours.

Although… Andrew didn’t understand you. He didn’t understand why you wanted Frank so bad. You could have better than him, you could have… someone who would care about your interests, someone who would listen, someone who would love you enough not to drag you along, someone who would be interested in what you had to say. How could Frank not be interested in what you had to say, anyway? Andrew thought back of a lunch break earlier that week, spent just the two of you in your office. Your conversation had wandered from politics about the economy and inflation, Mary Oliver’s poetry, Mavis Staples, your latest attempt at keeping a plant alive, Elwood’s latest mischief, abortion laws in Ireland, your favourite pasta dish, his mother’s art, and you had settled on attending a protest together next weekend that was organised to show support for the women who had been victims of the Magdalene laundries, before going back to work.

You had so much to say, about so many important and mundane things alike, and you were so brilliantly smart about all of it. And Frank was at best… faking interest? What was wrong with that man?

The image of Sam focused on her phone while he spoke flashed before his eyes, but he pushed it aside. It wasn’t the same, he… he wasn’t as interesting as you were, and besides… besides…

Was it not the same?

He rested his elbows on his knees, buried his face in his hands, heaved a long, aching sigh. Why was it all so difficult anyway? He didn’t feel like himself, hadn’t for a while, to be fair. Sometimes when he was teaching, he forgot about the pain that came with broken love, sometimes when he spent time with you and made you laugh, he was reminded that the world did not end with the heresy of losing someone he loved. The aching came back still, the emptiness he saw in his bed, on his couch, on the shelf of his bathroom, in the space between wanting and having. He should have known that the time spent with Sam, spent loving her, was only a loan. It was bound to end. Everything ended. Everything died in the end. The high that came with the euphoria of being in love, like a drug, was only a high, but reality had to come back, to slither in through the cracks of a dream that would be gone with the rising of dawn.

And anyway, the world was doomed, everything was going sour, there were wars and famine and people suffering, and in this crumbling sense of humanity, what was the point in loving at all? What was the point of holding the hope that something in this flitting world could last? A fool’s hope that would eventually collapse. It was pointless. Why would he want to love again? Why would he want Sam again, why… why would he want you?

Why would I want to love her when loving Sam wasn’t enough? Why would she want to love me when Sam gave up?

He could feel himself spiralling, knew it wasn’t healthy, tried to hold back the tears. And he thought of you, of your kisses, of your hands on him, of your mouth and your taste and the feeling of being human again that came with you wanting him, even if only for a moment.

Judging by how the past six months had gone by, Andrew thought he would not avoid it, the panic and the pain and the despair, that it would last a few hours at least. But then the thoughts came in verses, rhymes formed, the semblance of a rhythm, of a pattern, with words that carried meaning.

He looked up, blinked as he blankly stared at the dark screen of his tv. A void. Nothing. He couldn’t see it. He hurried to stand up, to head for his office, to grab the first piece of paper and the first pen he could find.

This was just the embryo of an idea, nothing structured, he would have to work on it, but it was something. The first thing he wanted to write in six months. The feeling of relief that came with tracing each letter was indescribable.

It started with two simple questions. He wrote them thinking of you. Thinking of you and him. Thinking of your lips on his, as a way to accept that he wanted to feel them again.

Why would you be loving?

Why would you be loved?

[lisaalmeida]

Je trouve ce petit poème, écrit par une Geisha (VIIIè siècle) tellement beau !

T'approcher m'est impossible

Je dois loin de toi

Passer ma vie

Pourtant mon cœur voudrait

S'attacher à toi comme ton ombre.