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he sent me postcards from Saint-Raphaël.
he told me stories of the sea,
“green as green milk,
blue as laundry water,
wine dark”,
and of the sun and roads.
I wished I hadn’t imprinted myself so much onto NewYork.
I wish I was free,
of decisions, and doubts and people.

he told me about Marseilles,
his nights and his days,
about the sun and absence of clouds.
I remembered all my secret journeys,
never told,
always hidden,
nestled in my hips and thighs.

And just like that,
I wasn’t in my bedroom anymore.
I was with friends, by the sea,
“green as green milk,
blue as laundry water,
wine dark”.
.
.
thank you, d