Fresh beginnings smelled like lavender.
The stains, the hair, the face buried in the pillow.
You sang on the first day of a month.
January made you cry your heart out.
Your skin envelops us both.
Our bodies are connected by a braid of roots.
You shove the skin on my nails back.
He teaches me how to swallow my own tongue.
For the sake of others.
For my best, in the long run.
But I can’t catch my breath.
His words holler from a far away country, they have nothing to do with me.
And she puts the blanket over me.
Dreaming and speaking of horizons.
And I fall asleep because she believes it herself.
In the hypotheses she establishes.
She washes my head above the kitchen sink.
Her hard hands moulding what she had created.
He enters the room and I think I’m drowning amongst the foam.
The nebulous beliefs, her hopes and ambitions.
And he turns on the waterworks.
Erasing the hint of rainbow lustres.
I can see how he squeezes her arm and mine by extension of the heart.
And when she puts me to bed at night,
All I can smell is the lavender on her sleeve.
“Girl with Flowers” by Adolphe Piot (1825-1910)