Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Sahara Slate Touch-it I215



Small handkerchiefs




Dear Francesco,

I do not know what language to write you then try the language of Molière, after all, is the language of the Enlightenment, to paraphrase another. Do you remember our first meeting? Was film. I was trying to make me a bun, hairpins stuck between my lips. The chair was a dirty color, that of an overripe raspberry, it was also the weakness, I could not resist slipping. The room smelled of sugar popcorn that littered the steps dotted with small blue bulbs. I heard a hook was your foot down just a little grain of corn. I watched you in the dark, your eyes were blue. It's crazy, especially for brown eyes like yours. The film unrolled his films and I felt your eyes on me that burned my neck. And then the movie ended, you were gone. Days and weeks passed, I saw you at the cafe, shopping mall, the florist and again at the cinema for a film in Peru. You have offered a cigarette, me a drink, and no one has ever separated. When you learn my name, you've repeated dozens of times looking at me, and in your mouth that does not sound like me. You drove the letters in your full lips, between your teeth and hissing a little apart, and no one ever shouted at me like that, like a poem all white. And now, like a souffle from the oven, everything falls, you forgot my name. And then your eyes in the dark no longer blue, it has picked up the popcorn. It's like you've never been there. Say I dreamed?



So what. I wait.


Signed Annabelle, Annabelle, Annabelle, Annabelle ...



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