la lumière.

the glare of the sun

leaves me broken in photosynthesis.

a morning so full of sicknesses

it sees me scratching at my face

with my fingertips-

-as twisted as

the knife in your chest.

i sing a rhapsody

for

the wind on a branch of the cherry tree;

it will blow and soon on the count of three-

-deliberately

scatter the wor d s t h a t y o u w h i s p e r

quietly to yourself when you kiss her.

l'obscurité.