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I love you,
You said
As you *touched me
As you drove your *car
Deep into *the night
Your sincerity
Arrested me
The world stood still
What else is there to say?


I miss Paris
I ache
I miss Paris!
At twilight when it is just my friends and I
Drunk and the streets are quiet
At midnight when I am by myself at the piano bar in Montmartre
Early morning when I run along La Seine
Leaving Chacha Club and walking home in bloody heels
When I am rushing to work at La Chope
I miss the awe and humility
And the vortex of beauty
Bullseye me
Little me
And the laundromat
Late at night
As the sewers flow
The veins, it’s blood!
I miss the loneliness
The lost
The romantic what if
Is now the nostalgic what was
Even Barbès-Rochechouart
And so, so very much more.


Think about
How you light a cigarette
In the wind
Turn away
The wind has more power
Face the wind
And put your hand up
For shelter
And you ignite
I am not!
Telling you
To smoke cigarettes
I am!
Telling you
How to win small wars
Big ones,
Smokers, etcetera,


Of course
You get through it
Life is like that
And their judgment
Only comes once a week
But his love
Comes all the sweet day long.


The linens
Remind me
I am old
At least
I am ageing
They are actually kind
In the morning
Their folds and ruffles
Upon my
Worn but not weary
My once rebel know-all soul
My now delible manuscript
Empty and full slate
Empty before
You never knew what I did
Empty before
I had no words of wisdom
Full now
I have humble insights to offer
To guide myself
Full up
Of all those standstill days
I cannot hide
What I have done
Who I’ve been
For so long
Even then
But now the linens
Have found their way
Into me
My inevitable
Give me hours
I shall still
Go unnoticed
Not so long ago
My nightmare!
To be unnoticed
Now the fragile but still
Sustainable dream
Not a nightmare
A nightmare
Not at all
A nightmare
Worth it’s weight in
The trade of
Young naive stupidity
But one day
Clearly it is coming
Like I never knew
The linens may be kind
Will the body, the world, the young
The bones,
The shopping bags on my arms
That leave carvings
Much longer than before
The earth sucking down
On my ass!
When will they win the war they waged
Way back when
When I was young and untouchable and forever young
And did I mention


Restless spirit
Journeys paid for
By the heart
Penniless heart
Blood and tissue
Precious currency
Barren soul
Empty inside
Smile alone from Montmartre.


Not to topple
High heeled madness
On concrete canvas
Pretty as a picture
But you’re almost falling
And your toes are bleeding
And you’re as graceful as a walrus
You grimace
As your struggle
To balance
And your toes pinch
Like your wallet to pay for those ridiculous stilts
Whoa, catch your balance
Good save, oh the allure
Silly dumby prototype relic
Smart is pretty
Strong is pretty
Memo is tacked
Beneath your stiletto.


You haven’t gone
From zero to hero
You’ve been purified
From monster to human
No hero
Just a beautiful, messy person
Who acted a way
Because you felt a way
Both wrong and right
An emotional human being

I have no mental illness
Aside from the bruises
And scratches and moments
Just me
A fellow fallible human
The facts haven’t changed
I simply understand them now
See them in a different light
A softer, kinder, smarter light
And I, too
Offer up only the same damned facts
With fleeting yet increasing bitterness
When will these questions go away?
I know the answer
The only question is
Can I endure your fleeting bouts of
Volatility, hostility
So that I may
Continue to have
Your sweet love
So very sweet when it is sweet

Oh, Love!
Accusations are poorly dressed admissions of fear, my dear!
My dear Love.
You don’t make it easy
Oh, Love!
So hard to make promises
But there’s no love like your love
And for now
I’m still here.


Friends, lovers, don’t always last
Two days ago is not the past
If no response is welcome, don’t ask
I’m disappointed, estranged again,
above all aghast
The pendulum swings and out you
It swings again, you love me fast
In shock, dismay, I stumble back
You’re a different person, sweet man,
it’s a fact
I tell you with love, it’s not an attack
One sip, a tragic happiness hijack.

À propos de Stina

If I could tell you about me in a neat and tidy definitive statement, I don't think I'd be writing this blog.
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