You live in Pontault-Combault today and you, who you wanted to aquatic ballet, when I ask you, full of love, as before, what you do with your days, you'd rather turn my head and cry . I found that you're ashamed of what you've become and even if I do not know what you can do well, I know both you 're wrong and you do not listen to me.
You live in Champs sur Marne. You left a long time, you did well traveled, eaten whole, in both England and Spain, and here you are back in the family apartment that you had left ten years ago without you return.
Your parents have moved and you live in their former home. The dog has changed its name, your skin never recovered from the attack of acne that you crossed when I met you. You have traded your gear Hardos a suit and it fits you most.
You're gone for another, a real con that one, even if you do not concede that lip service, even if you've finally left. You're gone away and you'll come back. Who is the man whom thou hast made this child? I do not even know if you know it. I hope so. There is a wall covered with multicolored tiles that separates our skins.
You leave a book these days, the first and last hope to glean some bits of you that holds you so quiet in my life, you whose vocal cords vibrate generally talk to me or answer me my questions unanswered.
You live in Florida and you're not happy, because your heart is not. Looking for Alaska is always a postcard or perhaps real, I do not know which prevents you often have a beating heart at the bottom of your rib cage, but elsewhere, like hanging from a thread that is not yours.
I regularly back and forth in 2nd class and it is not tomorrow the day that I could buy me a car. Apart from that, I have a fulfilling sex life, but I wake up too often, as for too many years, with the unpleasant feeling that every street is like and that life is a perpetual non-renewal.
I'm not sure it is our fault. New towns have had our skin, that's all.
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