It falls alone like wilting flowers.
La vie en rose
Like a lipstick stain, left on a carseat
An egg-shaped rock chosen by gay penguins
A butterfly wing on a windowsill.
Just shy, just short of a prior.
Je suis amoureux, mais je suis mort
What is context but a broken backdrop,
What are details but lines,
What is a story but colours spilled beyond?
Someone sings in a kitchen, alone
‘Et ça me fait quelque chose.’
Toes rounding the corners of old ceramic tiles
Ragged, cracked, abandoned,
But the singing continues, carrying on, carrying forth.
Que sera, sera.