(via thepulpgirls)

One of them has kept his love intact
with its shimmerings and chasms
another gets rid of it the way he’d throw away a withered plant
sweeping away even the last crumbs of earth
scattered on the balcony
while the third one separates the object from its attributes
and keeps watching the chimney-pots
at dusk,
keeps drinking, at his kitchen table,
the black gritty wine of an unknown south
—and how should I behave,
Mister Nobody asks himself
having stopped at a café
where he had—he remembers now—
once desired and then broken things off
between two journeys
although crossings would probably be a more appropriate word 
under the circumstances
which example to follow
but he ought perhaps to choose them in turn
mix everything up or even innovate why not
or (on the other hand) take advantage of the occasion
to lay out his thoughts
try to decipher time’s secret meaning
explore psychic space in all its dimensions
to recount (and understand)
genealogies and sequences
then he pockets his notebook again
notices that the waiters have piled up the chairs
that he is the last client of the night
that they are waiting impatiently for his departure
leaving just one ceiling lamp lit above his head
which shines on his glass his pen his hands with their bitten nails.

ADORABLEaaaagggghhhh

(via loveyourchaos)