Iron art at the V&A, London – Lens distortion courtesy of ©Cindy Fournier (2018)

I will recall every lines, every sighs, all whispers. How you used to gaze into my obscure thoughts, how you used to adore the depth in my soul.

The love I grow for our city will be the company in my exotic loneliness. The scent on your skin remains on my wrist, anchored for tomorrow’s souvenirs.

Back off. Keep praying, yes. The only change left. On Earth the ground is the enemy, danger belongs where none can grasp beauty. It flees from habits and remorse, despair and limits.

A black balloon, what you have become. My grey London throne. I spit on the honour that you defend, another ghost hidden in your flesh.

Dripping from your lips, mine are waiting for the sacred liquid. Between this instant and your breathing, time like a pill to swallow gets stuck in my throat.

Too fast, so trash.

The feeling now swings from one shore to the other; you stand proud. Reaching out for your fall, this is where I left the crown.

Made of tears, the tragedy draws lines justified for lovers. Cuts in the self, eyes abandoned.


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