(Seul Dans Le Collectif)
Those balmy days of sluggish avalanches and an antipathy toward the swarm long gone. They abandoned him the moment she opened her mouth and spat out the word, ‘Abracadabra’. He misses her honeyed flesh, disrespectful soul and perceptive love making with an abnormal passion.
As of now, every which way horizons frame his roomy prison cell. Tantalising perimeters beyond his ability to touch. A vagrant apiary, walls agonizingly ahead of perception chasing eyesight. Ties that no longer bind, frigid art forms, unfathomable riddles and a Moorish castle in Spain. These are the obsessions she swiped.
Alone, within a congregation of unnerving identical immortals he marvels at the chameleon sky above, ever grateful that when she left him marooned she was at odds to remind him to take three multi-coloured capsules each new dawn with the proviso that they be washed down with a sodium chloride solution. He never asked why.
“Pour mieux ont aimés et perdus, beaucoup mieux.” Bert Jansch (allegedly)