Cet amour-là

"Elle dit: non, ne pleurez pas, ce n'est pas triste, en rien, en aucun cas. Il s'agit de vous et de pas vous, oubliez votre personne, ça n'a aucune importance. Il ne faut pas se prendre pour un héros. Vous êtes rien. C'est ce qui me plaît. Restez comme ça. Ne changez pas. Restez. On va lire ensemble."

Yann Andréa

13.18

He said the first lines never really work and they don't say what they mean, stupid starting point in the middle of nowhere.

He said that and the crowd around them was full of noises so that nobody heard her heart sink and break.

She'd said something about the blues, something about a monster, something about pain.

I can't tame it I can't summon it see it hurts and burns, I feel it running through my veins.

I obey.

That's what she'd said, obey.

She had also started to talk about the pleasure  in her mouth and in her head as she wove sounds and letters together, the way she felt safe behind them, free once they'd been written on the page. She'd frowned and said ideas and culture are weapons. He'd laughed. She'd cried.

It had lasted long enough for them to know they wanted each other, craved for each other but also hated each other. Shotguns when they spoke. They would end up breaking each other.

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