For 333 weeks I have dropped question marks like bombs,
sewn seeds of jealousy into lapels just to see a tree of mystery
sprout out around their eyes.
I have thrown glances,
faked a good hand,
pirouetted empty promises like oases.
I am not proud of what I have done.
Their broken hearts are not oil for my ego
or the recycled roses of revenge.
They are not my trophies.
And now I do not want to sit on my swing
and give you acrobatic answers,
or let you feel the warmth of my breath
just so you get cold when I’m not there.
I do not want to swim in vieux vague rivers,
or anchor down my eyes when yours get soclose
I could tell you how many colours are in them.
I want to stop spitting out arrows of self-preservation,
warning them that they are all dispensable.
I want to see what happens when I don’t kiss like it’s a sport.
I want to flow,
get out when the boat reaches its final destination.
Not jump out in case we hit a waterfall.
I am waving a flag of my white nightie.
I will try to stop loading my gun with sticks and stones.
I will try to stop running away in high-heels.
I will try to put the game back in the box
and go wherever your Vespa takes us.
This is my experiment.