it's the little things.

the little things that distill their subtle poetry into the days and nights.
a hair that isn't mine on the floor next to my bed
meeting eyes with an ordinary old man wearing orange-tinted glasses
unearthing from pockets a card, a tacky lighter, a banana-split flavoured chewing gum
       - searching a whole two minutes for memories of how they got there
watching your traveling companion replaced by a new stranger every two hours
walking for hours in the forest, trying to decide exactly when those black clouds will break onto my head, à la gauloise
a photo of kids running running in an empty péniche soaring through the seine
dance with a feathered lady
pain like shattered glass sprinkled over my limbs, skin like wet paper, head in a foggy bubble as the hay fever pays a visit
so many flowers. maybe i've been predicted by boris after all, and need their presence to survive. hand me a bouquet that i can inhale.