Ask. I can almost guarantee you will disagree or maybe hate me. I don’t really mind. Life is a pole slathered in vaseline. I slip toward the floor. I belong on the ground. Bleeding and oozing is what I know. You are a problem. So pretty and so French. The words come out of you. I have to make the words. I have to make them mean something. You slink. I trouble to be hidden when I try.
You have a boy’s name in French, but you’re Swiss. Where I’m from, I just have my name. You are vowels, and I am consonants. Hard at every guttural stop.
I know you love me, but you can’t love me. That’s a hard love. I’ve lived it before, and you haven’t. That is what life is. I’d expect nothing else.