French for Jealousy
October 1, 2010 § Leave a comment
Sindri you don’t know how beautiful your words are and I believe that’s what makes them beautiful. You know, like when you burn paper and the edge turns black. Yet it clings on to the centre until you touch it. Then it cracks. Crack crack.
I know how to break.
“I know I’m dressed like a child,
But you’re all dressed like death.
And there’s a river that flows
Right through my home.
It’s full of keys and toys
That you forgot you had.”
What, like Grey Rabbit and journals and photographs of deceased country singers and my first guitar strings I held on to them, I held on tight and I didn’t let them out of sight. I did not want them to forget.
I do not want you to forget. Not yet.