It Was The Men I

People Come To Paris, To The Capital, To Give Their Lives A Sense Of Belonging, Of An Almost Mythical Participation In Society.

I Am Dead. I Have No Desire For You. My Body No Longer Wants The One Who Doesn’t Love.

Stormy Skies, Says Ernesto. He Grieved For Them. Summer Rain. Childhood.

You Alone Became The Outer Surface Of My Life, The Side I Never See, And You Will Be That, The Unknown Part Of Me, Until I Die.

Men Like Women Who Write. Even Though They Don't Say So. A Writer Is A Foreign Country.