Paris.
noviembre 16, 2011
In the bitter cold
I carried you
in one hand,
in the damp form
of a crumpled
piece of paper
left to me
on your kitchen table-
coffee capsules scattered,
and dirty mugs holding
the remains
of a hurried breakfast
and a silent talk.
I carried you,
clutched invisibly
in my fist,
walking fast
past other
pedestrians
because Paris,
in December,
somehow feels
more concrete,
more absolute,
in your kitchen
than by this frozen river,
this clean beauty
of the still buildings
against the thick fog.
In this rain,
I wanted
to walk you off,
through this morning,
so I could go back
to the capsules,
to the gestures,
as if I had never
been there
before.
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noviembre 17, 2011 a las 4:17 pm
:-)
xoxo
noviembre 27, 2011 a las 2:00 am
:-)
masxoxo
noviembre 29, 2011 a las 2:16 pm
Gracias a ambas, bonitas mías.
G.