Stylo Noir in Paris

Small red wishes
hung on the breathe
of a daydream.

Far
Far away
Far from your spring perfume

Your skin, color of sand. I always lied on your skin. Tasted it as a hungry snow flake seeking for the sunlight.

Warm like the sun i barely see.

Words of love you always give me… while i’m here, hibernated and alone like those small, orange balls that are to shy to turn red.