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Tel Quel

je sais bien mai quand même

Every movement necessitates an overwhelming sensation. The air grew cold, and for a moment, smelt of Melbourne: careless, sleepless, tireless; free. That particular street with the imposing french windows and screaming typography on every pane beside the quaint cafe with cheap pots and skull-warming heaters hung aloft, the same street where we walked until our feet hurt our pockets empty but our hearts full of purpose and possibilities and eventually we bought a pair of pumps each, in feeble surrender. Those were the nights of milk and honey, and cheap cigarettes. I had so much less of everything then.
This is my fourth night, completely clean.

And here I stand again, waiting in a different time and place, where all of the little rights and wrongs dissipate beneath the lights of a false, obscene winter in quiet contemplation of aesthetics over ethics; like Winterson’s Picasso and Sappho intertwined. Why are we moved? Because there is an excess within our lack thereof(s); a thousand things, people and events at any given time for which and/or whom we have no language for.

“Why do I long for another turn of time? Why do I want the clock to go faster when my life depends on holding back the hands? Why? I want to kiss you.

Kiss me with the hollow of your mouth, the indentation of desire. Kiss me with the pulled-apart open space, demolition of propriety, rebuilding of a place of worship among an upright people. She kisses me. The words that there are, fly up from her lips, a flock of birds cawing at the sky. An engine of wings migrating through the world but she makes her home in me.

**

Love me (…) through time, beyond the clock. Help me forget my life.”

They say the heart is a weapon the size of your fist,
(but how terribly small)

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