Darkness.
In the wandering hallways
full of memories of a gray era,
all she sees is the old man's face
in a rustic frame.
She smells the dust.
Feels his age; his fatigue.
She puts dark burgundy lipstick on.
Gets lost in the smoke of the shisha.
Closes her eyes to the mirror
and greets the horizon
of the candle lights.
She tastes the battle.
Mirror and candles.
Clawing through her hair,
getting back to the conversation,
she fights the migraine attacks
and dedicates a smile to
human nature.
They all exist;
in different moments.
- S
Montreal – February 17, 2012Labels: Poetry