is November 6th and took the night train back home. from the back seat, I hear: "hi. call to say that, today remembered you. I saw, on the floor of the stairs of Saint-Lazare, brown hair (like yours). dusty, but like yours. trod - in you, in a way - with black and dirty water from the rain that hung outside soles. treading and it hurt me. was almost possible bnd (tell you) hear the snapping of wires (maybe yours), dry & warm, like playing tactilíneo Paws a bedbug under a lily pad. I listened. each graph sonar, and they all went like splinters in the pores of my left hand. yea. I also saw - and it makes two minutes - in the face of a written jeune fille poem with me waiting for the train. the poem, and she almost tumbled on track. I restrained myself (I tell you again) that held me not to push it and 1) have a poem 2) is cut by a fact. but no matter: the life is more than the body (but the heart - he is made of flesh, accept) "the voice warns that reached the ceiling, my station.. get down on the floor and letting stuck in the train windows words of a call I do not know if in fact heard. 'm seeing now: the sky is a blanket-blue-quasi 'nfantil. is this time my phone rings and I answer a empty link: when you hang up, the same voice that I heard the bit on the train asks me, quiet & safe "bother you? bothers you, my silence? "
Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:
Follow "Kettle Muda"
% D bloggers like this:
No comments:
Post a Comment