Je pourrais toujours trouver les mots pour le dire
Les mots pour envouter
Les mots justes qui résonnent à l’infini
Les mots presque parfaits
Les mots entichés qui brulent de passion

Mais que dire?

Sans mots pour impressionner
Sans paroles reflétées
Avec seulement espaces candides entre les traits tracé sur la page
Pour te laisser me présager sans suggestions ni allusions

Sans mots pour capturer le regard
Sans paroles exposées
Avec seulement volonté et ma seule présence pour me contenir
Pour te laisser m’appréhender sans masques ni prétentions

Sans mots pour attirer l’attention
Sans paroles dévoilées
Avec entre deux êtres qu’un lien délicat et subtil
Pour te laisser l’espace pour me franchir sans détours ni indications

Sans mots pour inciter à approcher
Sans paroles évoquées
Avec simplement douce impression et délicate empreinte
Pour t’apprivoiser sans presse ni précipitations

Sans mots pour embraser
Sans paroles ardentes
Avec candeur intense et pure avec un innocent abandon
Pour t’évoquer rêves éveillés sans fantasmes ni fictions

Mais que dire?

Quand je préfère voir mes gribouillages se raturer et s’efface de la page
Par mes mots modestes ne laisser rien paraitre sauf ce que je suis
Pour t’offrir qu’un brin de patience et le murmure d’un soupir passionné

E - Each
T - time
H - her
E - eyes
R - reflect
E - endless
A – astral and serene
L - light

They don’t speak
just smiles staring at each other—
only hands moving
a slow reach
the loud lush red of an apple
passing between them.

One bite
then another—
the crisp snap
the plush juice slipping
down her chin
wiped away without thought.

She leans in
for one more bite
as her hands disappear
between her legs—
she leans in closer—
she stretches her back forward—
as vulnerable as a lure.

He leans in
with the last piece of apple
between his lips.

They share it like time,
no rush, no measure—
a rhythm known in the way they dance,
in the way a pause turns into a spark.

The last bite
his hand slides in
fingers brush—
more than enough to notice,
but just enough to say everything
without a word.

Keep the strawberry pie,
You sit on the couch in a tidy house.
Staring at the walls,
You start scrolling through Instagram
The same hellish selfies over and over,
But you draw tree branches with fallen leaves in pencil.

As the train whistle calls,
it sits in the corner,
scuffed leather the color of burnt umber,
the handle worn smooth—
hands too hesitant to carry further.
The lock rusted—I’ve come to like—
its mouth clenched tight over secrets.
Each click of its latch—
a swallowed sob.

Inside, letters tucked in the pages
of my favorite books.
There is a note of apology,
exhausted from being turned over too often,
a confession hiding at the bottom,
like a ribbon of sorrow,
a name stitched into the lining—
a name I never learned to erase.

One day, I will unpack it,
lay the words flat on my bed.
I will try them on—once more,
as if for the first time,
each syllable slipping over my shoulders,
like an ill-fitted coat—
too tight in some places,
and too loose in others.

But instead, it sits there—
an artifact from parts of me
that never knew how to speak.
And when I leave,
I pack it anyway—
its ache, a quiet anvil,
with a silence louder
than the wind—
carry it some more.

This house
hollow as sorrow—
air clings thick to the walls,
mute as tombstones.
Time—a cold stone,
lurks in the corners,
its face blind with grief—
its hands turning to dust.

I tell myself,
just one more day,
to stop trying to chase the dark away,
like a moth drawn to fire,
its wings flirting with ruin.
The floorboards wail beneath my steps.

Ghosts press against my neck—
hungry—wanting to feed on my weakness.
I try, in vain, seal myself shut.
Every sigh—
a blade drawn across a wound,
deeper than rust,
burning bitterly.

I am here—
fighting off shadows,
counting time in an hourglass,
its throat choked with wet sand,
waiting for the tide to rise
and carry me back to myself—

I’m not going to make it.

Hope is thin—
a tattered silk in a storm.
Still, I hang on.
There is something about being stung,
that pulls me back—
again and again,
to this aching, quiet fight
for more.

The house with the terrible smell of cow's blood,
And their hot manure, which would stain the house of my childhood,
Where such things happened,
Horrifying colorful images.
And not the kind that comes from Doris Lessing's words,
This flesh is not for charity,
It’s livestock for sale at the market,
Impossible to regulate...
The dried pork my grandmother saved for me,
Which I never eat,
A bite of my lunch.
Wrapped in newspaper, a good piece,
Redirected to the neighbors,
Little young calves,
With eyes wide open,
Their meat cooked with herbs,
Their skins salted,
Their cries hide in my heart,
Death is coming,
You turn into a dead corpse,
But their eyes stare in vain,
And the feet of the calves hop involuntarily,
It's a sad morning, says my uncle,
And with peasant manners, he smokes a cigarette.
The corpse, loaded into the car,
Dragged for sale,
My uncle brings water from the well,
Drinks it like a pig, burping,
I feel nauseous,
And I wonder where the black birds are,
But my uncle doesn't die in an accident,
The days repeat,
The pear trees that cover the yard with their branches,
The window panes reflect their shadows,
Why doesn't my heart stop,
During the ball game?
Weighed down by someone else’s sin,
I approach the ******* stone,
While my uncle urinates under the tree.