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Saindoux
“Tu es la première chose à laquelle je pense quand je me réveille.
Bonne journée, mon cœur!”
A bitter-sweet intonation bounces off my eardrum upon listening to French romantic phrases out the gritting unbrushed teeth.
Psychologically doesn’t match as I catch her pupils playing billiard on the ceiling, 5 meters of vacuum-cleaning my breath as I strike my palm into my kids' size underwear.
The sneak is hibernating in the summertime, Nirvana’s album Nevermind is lip-synching my mouth as I refuse to come up with my own authentication.
Rubbing my inner being against the pale wall whispering the lyrics and smiling but my jaw remains firmly locked as a sign I only murmur to myself and rejecting abused abundance.
“He knows not what it means
He knows not what it means
He knows not what it means”
She repeats and pounds her chest
I spread animal fat on my baguette
We make love while bleaching faces just to re-forget.
