Sunday, March 5


Alas! if I think of her, my throat becomes
dry, my hand falls back, my breasts harden and
hurt, and I shiver and cry as I walk. If I
see her, my heart stops and my hands tremble,
my feet freeze, a redness of flame rises to my
cheeks, my temples beat in agony. If I touch
her, I grow mad, my arms stiffen and my knees
give under me. I fall before her, and I go to
my bed like a woman who is going to die. I feel
I am wounded by every word she speaks. Her love
is a torture, and those who pass by hear my
lamentations . . . Alas! how can I call her

Love ~Pierre Louys 1870-1925

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she smiles at me over the brim of her cup of tea
warm lights in her hair
reflect the liquid of her eyes
her fingers dance and beckon
a brush of warm skin as her hand
touches my cold cheek
her skirt falls away
showing more thigh than she realizes
as she laughs at her own humour
I am struck silent
my words displaced by her voice
And I think
I want to be her mirror