après-midi à saint-malo

dusty memories,

newspaper clippings,

old photographs,

blurred figures in grey -

crooked smiles,

torn pages like uprooted trees,

stories from somebody’s life (whose?) -

bare threads of meaning;

dreams are spiderwebs

for catching juicy regrets…

i remember 

the soft cheek of a sadness

yet untouched by the frost:

tender, fragrant rose petals

poems not yet written

innocence not yet lost…

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