Softer, is what I heard. Like cream on my skin. Feathers.
As if the thought of bruises was too much. As if I had shifted. Has my place changed?
Shared but unspoken. Too many images merged to stay sharp.
Softer, like your fingers inside me.
Softer, like my hair on your thighs.
I had forgotten about the yearning.
Yesterday, you said. Yesterday, and it became softer.
I have the distance on my side. And against me. There are miles, hours, days or seconds between the time you ask and I say yes. You as one, I as a black background. I have no light to shed, no path that you can follow. I walk outside. Rules are not for me.
As I think of all the helping hands, I don’t see mine. They’re all streched and eager. Eyes on their fingers, hungry for a reaction. Teeth hidden, ready to rip our resolve apart. There is no help in their touch. Only an appetite for our weakest moments.
Outside. Beyond. Here. I want to be somewhere with you. Looking at the ones still on the path. I cannot reach out this time. Because ultimately, I want to be reached, I want to be the goal. As I run, in your crosshairs still.
I can pretend. Intent. In all your wants. And get caught. In all of mine. I’m not even hiding.
. Le bureau de Horizon… Parce que franchement, comment il fait???
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So… New header, colors, I’m not finished, only started. I want to get rid of Blogrolling to make my links to you more interesting, a small showcase of your work, that I admire and love and that inspires me. I want to change to fonts too. I might change the colors again.
I’m so green at this, I’m a bit lost. Why is it that my page is not showing up the same way in IE and Firefox? The headers on the sidebars are wrong in Firefox. And I have to change the colors on the scroll bar. Anyways, lots of work, but fun 🙂
Please, comments are more than welcome.
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To the thought of you
To the idea of your scent
To the passing echo of your breath
I will say when you ask
I will scream when you thrust
I will whisper when you invite
I want to be troubled
I wrote it once
And meant it in so many ways
And I wasn’t sure, wasn’t certain
If put together they touched
So many words I held back
And so many I erased
Send (your message has been sent)
You read them
And I hoped you’d understand
Now you wrote them
And meant them in so many ways
Did you remember?
I read them
And understanding did not change anything
Back, full circle, home, the center
My universe spilled at your blind eyes
My blood your logon at startup
And I was the one
Am the one
Leading
Now
Enter
Ok, ça m’a pris près d’un mois. Ça dĂ©collait pas. Puis un moment donnĂ©, Ă la page 195:
Si le hasard existait, il n’aurait pas dĂ©cidĂ© de laisser agir ce qui, au plus profond de lui, ne savait mĂŞme pas encore qu’il aspirait Ă ĂŞtre.
Et je suis assommée, finalement. Je suis abasourdie par ma surdité. Je viens de catcher. Et je suis complètement sous le charme de cette plume froide, noire, sexy, prétentieuse, exposée.
Je ne me prĂ©cipiterai pas Ă la bibliothèque pour me taper ses 1022 autres bouquins. C’est assez pour l’instant. Mais je suis tout Ă fait conquise.
Ce qu’il a de plus frustrant dans ma bibli de banlieue, c’est les traductions. Thompson, Hammett, et tous mes mecs Ă cigarette et fĂ©doras, traduits. C’est pĂ©nible et dĂ©sagrĂ©able, sauf quelques rares exceptions. Alors j’Ă©cume les usagĂ©s de l’ouest.
Et après Dard, qui? Noir, noir, noir je veux du noir français maintenant, mais je n’en connais pas un.
Je veux un mâle en bras de chemise, le noeud de cravate Ă peine lâche, le col ferme, l’odeur de la nicotine et de l’after-shave dans ses cheveux, ses mains sèches, rugueuses, chaudes, Ă©treignant mes Ă©paules. Je lui fait face, mon nez effleure son cou mais avant que je puisse y mettre ma bouche, avant que je sente sa peau sur mes lèvres, il me repousse, fermement.
Et il me dit de sa voix basse et graffignée par la cigarette:
” Toi et moi, poupĂ©e, c’est une histoire impossible.”
I show my face. Well, some of it. Enough for now. All I’m able to.
I’m playing with my template too, some changes already there, some more to come. But I love my header, so I have to work with it.
I just want this space to be more clear, more unblurred, more opened, more me.
It’s spring, old skins shed, windows opened wide.
I’m breathing, it feels good.
10:51 sur l’horizon de la planisphĂ©re. Quelle belle heure, quel beau projet!
Les deux choses que j’aime le plus: La dĂ©couverte de QUELQUES nouveaux blogs (maudit que le monde est petit) et le travail monumental de l’auteur (qui semble se chercher une blonde, mais je m’Ă©gare).
Je disais donc, quelques nouveaux blogs, car certains m’Ă©taient dĂ©jĂ familiers, d’autres je frĂ©quente dĂ©jĂ , sporadiquement ou rĂ©gulièrement. Certains ont probablement plus de plaisir que d’autres Ă suivre les pĂ©ripĂ©ties des auteurs. Moi je suis une Ă©gocentrique avouĂ©e. J’aime juste me voir nommĂ©e.
Je blague (oui, oui, enfin, un peu).
Alors, un beau merci Ă SĂ©bastien, cet auteur fou qui se tappe des heures de lectures qui j’en suis certaine sont toutes aussi palpitantes qu’un Indiana Jones.
There it is
Opened again, wide
For your eyes to do what your hands cannot
Asleep was comfortable
Awake is painful
Opened is blistering
But necessary
I offered, gave, pushed, fed
I now sacrifice what’s left
A foetus of a woman
In a hostile womb
Born from sins and cries
Raised on lips and hands and hair and thighs and
The milk taken out of my mouth
I now scavenge the depths of my memories for food
To see
In the mirror
The real image
Of my new skin
