Nada


Rings on the coffee table,
A song with my name
that wasn’t written
after me.

Conversations
with an uber driver about a town in Ruanda that neither of us
will remember tomorrow.

Sunday lunches at Brigitte
getting drunk
On a 100 euros worth pinot gris,
that I don’t even like that much,
But that perfectly matches
with the fish you force me to order.

Because you know I’m gonna like it;
Because you’re sure I’m gonna like it;
Because you swear I’m gonna like it.

I don’t like it.

Angry sex against the balcony window
Cigarettes after sex,
Butts been thrown into the flower pots,
Where the only thing growing
Was the distance between us.

Third fight that week.
Me crashing the cendrier
that your mom gave you
against the wall.
-Ça va pas, la tête!
Silence.

Me spending money that I don’t have
on a toy you’ll forget about.
Me drawning on all the water
You forgot to boil for my tea.
Me crying myself to sleep
was your idea of gettting me wet.

Claxon noises,
You getting mad
You getting mad
You getting mad
I open the window.

The breeze takes me back
to that beach in Normandie.

The water finally leaves the room, and takes your remembrance away.

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