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Miettes

Je n’y pense plus. Ou si peu. Juste assez pour que ce soit facile à balayer de mon esprit, facile comme on dégage une mèche de cheveux qui obstrue la vue.
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I felt like talking to you the other day. Then I realized I can’t remember your phone number. Not that I would’ve called, you know. Not for real.
****
I hate that
there has to be an asshole
to every story
‘cause that means I get to be one too
once in a while
and I really hate assholes
****
Surprised or amused stares while I write. With a pen and paper. In the metro. And once our eyes meet, you know I was writing about you. No need to get self conscious, I got the good stuff before you noticed me. Once you know, you’re not as interesting honestly.
****
But sometimes the words I write survive only in hurt and sads of all kinds. One day in January I decided they needed to go. They went, I stayed. Of course it’s just a symbol but who cares? It felt fantastic.


 

Comments

Carolina said…
"But sometimes the words I write survive only in hurt and sads of all kinds." I love this, so true for me too.
this is lovely!
swan_pr said…
Thank you, I'm glad you like it! And thank you for your visit, a pleasure :)