I cared the way Patroclus saved Achille in despair.
How every burning words,
Were digging in my soul begging for a place in hearth
How now only you could have made it this far.
In the poet's home
There was none but the muses,
It was empty without you.
So I wrote every poems,
Placed them down the walls
It was pretty, I felt alone.
I read them then understood
Now I wanna scream,
«it's you, it's you, all of it, it's all for you !»
I wanna scream it with a paper and a pen.
Until someone stares at the page and gently says,
« Oh darling, it is too real to be true »
All my poems were about you,
But then I stopped writing.
Does the ink was my blood
Or my heart hated beating ?
December had sweet nights,
I still carry the weight of those.
You were in dreams, so kind, glowing,
On midday sky, I still recall
(It was your voice, I picture you)
«Sometimes I crave to be loved»
I painted that with poetry.
It was some simple words,
They meant the world to me.
But now your waiting by the sky
As I water every poems
(in case they turned into flowers,
I need some memories bouquet)
And I will leave the poet's house
At the end of summer.
Slowly regrow a part of youth
I'll learn to ask,
carefully.
«When you see the stars Héloïse,
Do you still, think about me ?»
