Les femmes aux poses entretenues

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Her face waited for me in the mirror.

I could already see her in my head.

I knew, had I looked, the image would

Remain unforgettable, a sensation.

 

I wonder what it was like to live in her body.

What she was thinking when she got out of bed.

What she was afraid of once she turned off the lights

At night. She put me in her head, under her skin.

 

I was convinced that she wanted to protect me.

Maybe she didn’t want to be alone, in her own flesh.

At times, she was afraid of herself and what she could do

If she stopped contemplating and readjusting right and wrong.

 

I observed her hands when she sunk into certain dresses

The artificial patterns over her skin, the cold throat, the singular

Hairs  fallen, clutched and lost within the dead air of her garments,

The abysses within her feminine figure, the non-blushed regions,

Nails clattering, in disarray, like a soundless piano, bursting, capitalised,

I remain frightened, of her, what her body reveals to me, who is sitting

At her feet, memories have a heartbeat, they don’t have a tense.

 

I felt how she put all her weight on her feet in the hope

To crush the grounds that held her, to penetrate a different

Reality, archangelesque, hungry, discouraged, unseen and

Ever-searching and digressive, the hole I could imagine, perhaps

I’d follow her jump, maybe demise, she stopped caring, but something

Still kept her here. Maybe my indecision, maybe something that I would

Never encounter or discover, a name unmentioned, a secret ever-growing.

white head bust
Photo by Zack Jarosz on Pexels.com

 

 

 

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