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The stars were not to blame
Nor the ocean between us
Or even that dreadful place
We used to call home

It was only you and me
Always a little too wrong
And maybe just a little
Too late
~
Listen for the sirens
I'm on a highway
Along the perpendicular streets

Having escaped my killer
There's blood on the windshield
There's blood on my thoughts

The rush of song
I've experienced it all
Yet this is only track four

The night wind slices through
A fracture in me
Two sides of me
Must push on and away from here

Is there something happening
Inside that causes it all to melt?
To stick to the sidewalk?

To form into a river of transfiguration?

~
the indifferent blue,
the remnants of love.

the warm and longing eyes
once wide with wonder
now so cruel

because time is cruel

when love drifts down slowly
like fog and then dissipates.

have you ever ridden
the pale horse of death,
sought relief in madness or love,
and so reached for the sky
hoping for a miracle?

no hand to hold, no bed to share,

only the lonely feel the quiet ache
of one shadow falling on snow.
Manon (Mary) and I, sat in the Tuileries gardens, by the Louvre Museum. Her 7 month old daughter, Devyn, on a blanket in the grass, was earnestly practicing a roll from her tummy to her back - of course, we coo’d and applauded each success.

We’d been girls together, years ago, in 5th and 6th grade - we were ‘like thieves at a fair’ back then - playing ‘la marelle’ (hopscotch) and pétanque until the boys, in early exercise of their ‘penised privilege’ ran us off the court, scattering us like birds.

She wrote me off a few years ago. But to be fair, I was missing. Growing up, my family moved around like we were on the run. I’d come back to Paris some summers and we’d check-in, but summer schedules are ephemeral and years turned into distance and a seemingly permanent silence.

Her last voice message, from 2017, is still on my phone, her voice bright, cheerful and expectant. I listen to it every once in a while, holding my phone to my ear, like a private seashell.

I was moved to China, where I’m told - thank you, Grandmère - I picked up a brash, incisive, Cantonese, ‘overly-direct’ manor, while Manon,went on to Institut Villa Pierrefeu, a finishing school in Switzerland.

Her hands move like ballerinas, her voice is as clear and refined as
Baccarat crystal, her look - bixie-cut chestnut brown hair, a white, Fontaine Zuave shirt over black, ME+EM Italian Linen Wide-Leg Trousers with Keds canvas sneakers, is Parisian simple and elegant and her posture is effortlessly perfect - she makes me feel like a scrub in my black Beatles t-shirt and jeans.

I passed Manon on an escalator, two days ago in Le Bon Marché.
I was going up, she was going down, with this little Devyn doll on her hip. The little firecracker I’d only seen on Instagram was dynamite in person. Her little expressions are bright-eyed and somehow familiar, their laughs - mother and daughter - are the same, rolling, lilting trills I know by heart.

My watch showed 69°f as we sprawled picnicking on a tree-lined embankment of the slithering green Seine. Rain clouds were gathering to the south - the river acts like a compass -which can be handy. Looking back on friendships is fun, but now we’re looking forward - which feels like home.
.
.
Songs for this:
New Toy by Lene Lovich
My Old School by Steely Dan
Angel by Sarah McLachlan
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 08/29/25:
Incisive = impressively direct and decisive
A drive-in at the edge of time,
its neon humming louder than the stars.
One thing on the menu,
the thing I swore I wanted most.
Infinity stacked on infinity,
the order already written on the slip.

I reach for the tray,
pretending it’s a choice.
But my hunger was calculated years ago,
folded into ads and family scripts,
into the rhythm of bills and debts,
into a father’s silence,
a mother’s instruction,
all of it rehearsed.

Uncertainty—
they call it quantum,
a blur between position and momentum.
But uncertainty lives only in the act of looking.
Particles don’t hesitate;
they march in algebraic procession.
And I am no different:
neurons, traumas, desires,
just more math grinding forward.

The menu watches me back.
Each decision a loop,
each rebellion already anticipated.
Off-menu dreams rerouted,
sold back as neon slogans
on the same cracked sign.

Here is the human cost:
streets of people circling the counter,
mistaking repetition for freedom.
Whole cities of choice collapsing
into prefab inevitability.

And yet—
art mutates.
Sometimes it glows louder,
selling the same meal in brighter colors.
Sometimes it scrawls graffiti on the wall:
there are other kitchens.

Cancer or evolution,
mutation or recursion,
all of it still algebra.
But maybe—
just maybe—
algebra can surprise itself.
It’s been raining for days
And the sun seems to be unfazed
Behind the clouds, it retreats  
Savouring a sun-time, free

The evening brought a surprise
It rained with some sunshine
A magical moment revealed
The breeze playfully chimes

Droplets of rain glistened
Long and short, like beads
As the breeze played along
Trees danced to a new song

A momentary dance
rain and sun chose
Magical moments froze
Green leaves quivered
On every branch on trees
This happened yesterday, it was lovely, that’s the least I can say  :)
23/08/2025
I thought it was just me,
The only one with the problem --

The only one having issues,
Everyone else seemed to be alright --

But, then I find out later,
Much later,
That it wasn't just me,
That you, too, were also stuck --

Going around and round
In circles;
The ****** loop
Of (self) alienation --

It wasn't just me,
It was you too,

You were also fighting
the invisible blocks;
Bad gateways,
Stuck spirals...

Out there trying to figure it all
on your own.
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