Dust bullies. The hole is still open and painful. I m caressing the silver bullet and the missing rock on the pink gold universe stuck on my fingers.Ha. Passion sweats

Don't you forget about me I'll be alone, dancing you know it baby Going to take you apart I'll put us back together at heart, baby

The last words 7 years later

Since the last post, we obviously get back together despite being in two different country. I just could not imagine my life without the sharpest man I ever met. But after a mail sent early today, I think his words will be the finals to our beautiful and tough story. To flashtitia Aug 4 2014 at 10:42 PM Cool. I only sent the mail to confirm what I knew you'd write months ago. I won't waste my words on arguing your misguided points. Take care of yourself and goodbye.

End

A week ago I left my man of six years,my cat of one year, my flat of three, my job of five and London town of eight years.A frozen blanket is covering me since. I heard his last words to me over the phone " you ll never find a man who is going to love you as much as I do".I know he's right. But I don't want to find another man, I just want to find myself and I need to be alone.I always felt that my body was mold to be against his. My words became poetry against his ears. My thoughts were waves of images and songs, of improbable ideas. In this six years I never been bored for one minute and I felt absolutely adored every seconds, desired at every moves. But I have the sensation that London has eaten us alive, making our beautiful story surviving when it should have been thriving on the shore of a coastal town. I m off to Moscow now with my baby blue eyes loved in a dark, cold and silent place of my heart. It s been a long week without any of his words and winks. I feel so dry.

notes 2

Winter evening between dog and wolf. Open window, freezing breeze. Torso breathes. Fumes from a transparent mustard glass. Eyes paralyzed on distant electric concrete. Hands tenderly roving around the black coffee glass while the horizon is going to sleep, tender coffee spilling on the neat wood, forking off between a cup and a virgin ashtray, brown amazon river running after gravity along the white plastic of a washing machine and dropping slowly now forming a dark ochre puddle. Coffee lac reflecting the giant legs running for a blue sponge. Sucked into the absorbent blue, the once magnificent arabica drew a flat face sticking tongue at the running cleaning hands. Magic lost for two drops on a naked foot.

notes

"one day as I was in a tender roving, my dad told me "listen son, today if you want the moon, you should not be a poet but a cosmonaut"" Loic lantoine

2.38 am

I m thinking about you too.