Could You Love This?

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.