Et les nuits élastiques.

Salle des Pas Perdus.


In my stomach, in my hair Warmth and that smell stays, it fills you like drops of liquor on your hand and in the folds of your neck

I stare at trains and phone and hands
At my feet on the streets for hours (East) rubbing words out of the ground
Into my stomach, my hair

*

The old me spat in my face
Don't ask me, I'm trembling.