I hope you’re thinking of me too

A party is going on upstairs. I can hear the music and the voices.
I’m alone in bed. There’s no party, no music, no voices.

I think about you for a moment.
You can’t hear the music, or the voices.
You’re alone in bed.

And you’re far.

So far.

Too far.

Now, I can hear your absence.
There’s a party going on upstairs, there’s music and voices.
All I can hear is that you’re not here.

You’re not at the party.

Your voice isn’t one of the voices.

But now, you’re dancing behind my eyelids.
You’re the party in my chest, the beating drum.
I miss your voice.

I haven’t heard it in so long.

Too long.

And now, I’m tripping and you’re grabbing my hand.
You’re taking me to the party, to the voices.
I can feel the music.

I am trembling.


I feel you. Between my legs, on my hips.
Pulling me. Pushing me. Crushing me.

I am not at the party, I am the party. I am the music, and the voices.
You’re dancing, stamping on my belly, singing a song nobody knows.
I can’t breathe, in that moment, you’re too beautiful.

I open my eyes.

The party is still going on upstairs. I can hear the music and the voices.
My bed is empty.
I hope you’re thinking of me too.


You, again

You are the kind of girl people like me write poems about.

We attempt to quench our thirst in imaginary seas,
trying to sail as far away from your smile as we can,
scared you will capture our souls in your deepest waters,
but the wind and current always bring us back to you.

He was not one of us, he couldn’t surrender himself to your holiness.
He didn’t deserve you.

There are plenty of brave souls roaming the seas looking for you,
and the only star guiding them is the brightness of your eyes,
and the only faith keeping them alive is the simple thought of you.

Know that.
You are an ocean, beautifully dangerous.

Many will want to conquer you, and will drown trying.
A few will want to understand you and will worship you.

No one will ever own you. No one will even tame you.

No one will ever break you.

You are an ocean, beautifully dangerous.
Don’t let anyone give you any reason to think otherwise.


We’re hurt, but we’re alive

Hier soir, on s’est assis autour d’une table.
Last night we sat at a table.
Dans un pub.
In a pub.
Un verre à la main.
Drinks in our hands.
Du baume au cœur.
Smiles in our hearts.
Riant à gorges déployées.
Laughs in our throats.

Hier soir, on s’est assis autour d’une table.
Last night we sat at a table.
Dans un pub.
In a pub.



Hier soir on s’est assis autour d’une table.
Last night we sat at a table.
Dans un pub.
In a pub.
On a parlé.
We talked.
De la fac.
About Uni.
De nos grand-mères.
About our grand-mothers.
De sex.
About sex.

De droit.
About law.
De notre passé.
About our past.
De nos couleurs préférées.
About our favorite colours.

De notre futur.
About our futur.

Hier soir, on s’est assis autour d’une table.
Last night we sat at a table.
Dans un pub.

In a pub.

Frères et sœurs.

Brothers and sisters.

Amis et amants.

Friends and lovers.


Hier soir, on s’est assis autour d’une table.
Last night we sat at a table.
Dans un pub.
In a pub.
On a trompé la mort.
We cheated death.
On a fait l’amour à la vie.
We made love to life.

Hier soir, on s’est assis autour d’une table, dans un pub, partageant la même foi.
Last night we sat at a table, in a pub, sharing the same faith.
Une table. Dans un pub. Un vendredi soir.
A table. In a pub. On a Friday night.

Ils sont prêts à tuer au nom de leur cause.
They are willing to kill for their cause.
Nous on est prêts à mourir au nom de la liberté, de l’amour, de l’amitié, et de la bière.
We are willing to die for our freedom, love, friendship and beer.



Since you’ve left 

It’s been raining since you’ve left. 

I’m not sure whether it’s a metaphor for all the tears that have been soaking my pillow for the past few days, or if it’s the sky matching the general mood, crying in your absence.
It might be both. 

The gardens in my neighborhood have been silent since you’ve left, the echo of your laugh has abandoned my swimming pool.

The sun doesn’t shine since you’re not waking up in my bed anymore, the clouds have over taken him, opening a morose funeral march. 

August has arrived, wearing grey. And quiet. So quiet. The birds don’t have the heart to sing anymore. Even when the thunder rolls, it’s a deadened sound.

My world is mourning. And I, I am just an empty shell. 



Somewhere along the way, you got lost.
Too many paths.
Too many hurdles.
Too many gaps.

Too many battles to fight.
Too many ghosts to fear.

Somehow along the way, you lost yourself.
You gave in.
Gave them what they wanted.
Denied yourself what you needed.

You surrender who you are for who you think you have to be.

You surrender who you are for who you think they want you to be.

I’ve seen who you are, the first time you looked at me in the eyes.
You’ve told me who you are, the other night, through your tears.

You might not know who you are anymore. You might be scared.
But I know. I know who you are.

You are the smile I want to see every day. You are the eyes that make me feel like I can do anything.
You are the hands I want to feel on my body. You are the laugh that makes me feel warm inside.
You are the presence I want to feel next to me every step of the way.

You are the smart, creative, generous human being I’m proud to call my soul mate.
Not my girlfriend. Not my boyfriend. My soul mate.
I don’t want labels, I don’t want genders, I don’t want society to define us.
We are two souls, meant to be on this earth, together and happy.
You are my home, my shelter.
You are my future.

You are the reason why I am who I am today.
I’ve never been so certain of who I am, and who I want to be. I owe you.

So now, let me be the reason why you become the person you are meant to be.

I love you


I’ll always come back, darling

Hey darling, it’s me again.
You know last time when I said that I wouldn’t be able to love again in our town?
I lied.
I fell in love. And I’ve loved her, a bit more everyday.

Today I went for a walk,
the streets were empty, and still, I could hear your voice,
whispering to my ears “you’re back”.

I walked by the Jardin des plantes, and couldn’t resist.
I went back. I saw our bench.
A young woman was sitting on it, looking at her kid running around, chasing an invisible dragon.

Nothing has changed here, time has stopped.
But everything feels different, life kept on running.

The same statues were looking at me.
The naked lady was still hiding behind the peacock.
The she-wolf was still protecting her young.
They were still there, frozen in time.

But you weren’t there.
I wasn’t holding your hand.
I wasn’t holding my breath.
I wasn’t looking at you, terrified at the thought of you disappearing.

I missed you today, for the first time in a while.
I felt your presence.
I felt your absence.

It was good to feel close to you again.
To feel that you hadn’t just been a dream.
That you had been real.
To feel that our love still lives there.
It was good to feel that I haven’t really lost you.

I’m in love. Not with you anymore.
I’m in love. But I still love you.
I’m in love. And it’s okay.
I love you.
I miss you.
But I’m in love.

Toulouse is way too beautiful to become a tomb.
I’ll make it my home again.
I’ll make love to her, and I’ll make her mine, here.

And sometimes, I’ll go on walks, and I’ll walk by the Jardin des plantes.
I’ll hear your voice whisper to my ears “you’re back”.
So I’ll walk in, and I’ll whisper “I’ll always come back”.



I cried last night.
I’m not sure why.

Was it your absence?
Or your incomplete presence?

Was it their death?
Or our hypocritical breath?

Was it me being angry?
Or just the expression of an irrepressible despondency?

I cried last night.
I’m not sure why.

Was it a cry for help?

Was it a cry for peace?

Was it a submission?

Was it an abandon?

I cried last night.
I’m not sure why.

Looking at the world, without you.

Looking for beauty, in filth.

Looking for hope, in the mess they’ve made.
In the mess we’ve made.

I cried last night.
I’m not sure why.

I am Charlie, they claim.

I am not Charlie, others protest.

They are the victims.

They are guilty.

I cried last night.
I’m not sure why.

In the emptiness of my room, I listen to the world going mad.

In the silence of my room, I feel the world going mad.

In my room, I hurt.
The world is going mad.
We’re all going mad.

I cried last night.
I’m not sure why.

Maybe it was for you Charlie.
Or maybe because of you.


On being hurt

Writing, when hurting, comes naturally to me.
I never thought you’d be my muse but here we are. Words rushing through my brain, overwhelming me.

Tonight I am a writer, I am a lover. A poet and a wounded heart.
Tonight, you’re inspiring me.

My blood is pain, my blood is ink.
As the night swallows me, I’ll let my mind slowly sink.

I’ve offered you words, they got lost, or you lost them. Now to find new ones I don’t have to look far.
You woke the writer up. You wounded the lover.

I’m hurting, I’m writing.

But silence is endearing, and you’re worth fighting.
Please steal my words again, I don’t want them.



They didn’t really think that through, did they?
When they taught us that loving someone was the final step in a relationship, the ultimate goal.

You begin by being interested in someone, then you like them, care for them, really like them, then you have feelings for them, and you love them.

But what about when you’ve told them “I love you” a hundred times and that’s not enough anymore? What about when you need more than “I love you”?
When I feel like screaming her name until my lungs bleed and my heart explodes?
When I’m alone at night and I can almost feel her absence, tangible, laying down in my bed?
When the sky and the ocean blend into each other, impassable wall keeping us apart?

They didn’t teach me that one day loving someone would mean loving myself and that loving myself would mean loving someone.

How do I tell you that?
That now that I love you, you could break me. That I don’t know who I am when you’re not here. That you are the only thing that makes sense in this crazy world.
Is “I love you” supposed to mean all of that?
That I crave you, constantly, painfully.

I am more in love with you than any “I love you” will ever be able to express.


On Being In Love

So that’s what happens when you begin to care.

It starts quietly,
climbing up your spine,
gripping your nerves,
numbing your body.

Then it gets to your brain,
forces its way in,
crushes your feelings.

That’s what happens when you love.

And you miss the numbness.
It spreads its venom,
through your veins,
across your limbs,
the whole of you aches.

That’s when you’re in love.
Or love is in you.

A parasite,
growing a bit more every day,
sucking blood at every single one of your heartbeats,
feeding itself of your dreams.

That’s when you surrender who you are for who they are.
That’s when you can’t sleep at night anymore if their shadow doesn’t soothe you.
That’s when you can’t smile anymore if you can’t hear them breathe next to you.

That’s when distance and pain begin to sound the same.
When absence and anger become synonymous.
When I love you and I miss you are the only punctuation marks you know how to use.

That’s when words get stuck in your throat,
cause there’s too many of them,
and not enough of you to speak them.

That’s when silence paralyzes you.
And all you can say is I love you.
Because it is the only truth that makes sense.
Because these are the only words that can be spoken.
Because in that moment that’s all you are.

In love.


I’m coming back, darling

Darling, I’m not sure when exactly I started to forget what you looked like. It happened slowly, each day eroding your memory a little bit more, you became a blur and today you’re just an idea. I have the idea of you, I don’t remember what it was like to have you.
But darling, soon, I’ll be walking down these streets again, these streets you’ve been striding along till your last breath. I will think about you, I will miss you. I will miss how you used to hold my hand when we would stride along these streets together. I will miss how we used to love each other in this town. I don’t think I can love anyone else in this town. I can’t even love you anymore, you’ve been gone for too long.
Your face disappeared into the walls, the pavement swallowed you all, and the entire town is a cemetery.
I’m coming back darling, without you, dragging around my lonely shadow. I’m coming back, a widow that doesn’t know what mourning means. I’m coming back, to know real grief.
I’m not sure when exactly I started to forget what you looked like, but darling, you will never stop haunting my nights. I will always expect you to come knock at my door.
This town will always be our town.
I will always be yours.


Letter to Michael Brown’s murderer

When did you forget that they are human beings, just like you are?
When did you forget that a bullet through their skins would hurt them, just like it would hurt you?
When did you forget about the tears of their mothers, the blood of their fathers, the sob of their children, the agony of their lovers?
When did you forget about your humanity?
When did you become a murderer?
Was it when you put your uniform on?
Was it when you were told that they are animals?
Was it when you were told that you are better than them?
Was it when you were looking for someone to blame?

How do you explain to your son that it’s not your blood that’s tainting your shoes?
How did you tell wife that the lifeless body of the kid lying on the pavement is your achievement?
How do you sleep at night, knowing that an entire family will never sleep in peace ever again?

Who do you see when you look at yourself in the mirror? Who do you think you are?
Cause we can tell you who he was. His name was Michael Brown.

Now shall we talk about the colour of your shadow?


The conversation we should have had

Today my mum walked into my room while I was writing. And that’s how it went.
” what you’re doing?
– I’m writing.
– You’re writing?
– I am, hopefully I’ll be able to post something on the blog soon.
– What blog?
– The blog Mum, I told you about it!
– Oh right, that… I really don’t understand, what can you possibly write about?
[ I’m writing about you. About myself. About what you made of me. About what I made of myself. I’m writing about her, how I saw her, how you never wanted to see her. About what she made of me. I’m writing about them, how they walked on my soul, how they lifted me in the air. About what they made of me. I’m writing about love and friendship, about anger and loneliness, about fear and nightmares, about oceans and closets, about dreams and hope, about fire and rain. I’m writing about life. ]
– I don’t know, stuff
– But why?
[ Because I need it. Because it makes me feel alive. Because I find in words what I will never find in you. Because words give me more than you ever will. Because I can write what I can’t tell you. Because I don’t have to tell you what I write. Because some mornings it’s painful to breathe, but then I write about feathers that I want to blow away and I can feel the air filling up my lungs. Because some days walking on the street makes me deeply angry at people, but then I write about their perversity and I find a way in it to fight it. Because some nights I unbearably miss her, but then I write about the way her smile meets her eyes, and I can feel her skin against my cheek. Because when I lose faith, I always write the answers to my questions. ]
– I don’t know, because I like it.
– Alright, fair enough. I’ll let you to it then.
[ No, stay! Please… Ask more questions. Ask me who the missing lighthouse keeper is, why he will hate me, whom I’m not in love with. Ask me about that night in the field, or the race, or the thread. Ask me about what you can’t see. Ask me who You is. Ask about the writer that’s sleeping under the same roof as you, the writer you gave birth to and you’ve raised. Ask for some truth. Please. ]
– Ok, thanks, see you in a bit. “


That night in the field

I dreamt about these kids one night, these five kids playing around in a field, high on life, high on love.
And I was one of them.
I dreamt about the blond one always laughing and falling around because her body is always too slow for her volcanic soul, she’s crossing boundaries engaged in an assault course craving acceptance and diversity, but tonight, tonight she’s not falling, she’s flying, tonight her body isn’t the clumsy old friend she’s been living with and mistreating for two decades, tonight she is her body, and she’s a ballerina dancing with the wind, light as a feather.
Then I dreamt about the wise boy, usually looking at the world through a kaleidoscope of complexity, looking for answers in words, making up words for answers, but tonight, tonight he’s just amazed by the simplicity of their happiness, of their friendship, blossoming in the warmth of the early summer; he is forgetting about words and answers, screaming his acceptance of the world, without doubt, embracing a new faith, wiser than he has ever been.
Then I dreamt about the awkward one, always wondering if he has the right to be here, carrying his heart in his hand, ready to share it with whoever needs it, and no one seems to understand his intention, but tonight, tonight his heart is where it belongs, going wild in his chest, and he knows that he has the right to be there, he is wanted there, he doesn’t have to give to receive, no one is expecting anything from him but to be himself, and he finally is.
Then I dreamt about the lonely one, without whom none of this would have been possible, without whom they would all have been lonely, but tonight, tonight he’s more than that, tonight he is the friend, the brother, the lover, and he laughs, and his eyes smile, and his arms are a home to his beloved, and he finds shelter in their feverish bodies pressed against his and while the night falls he stands up brighter, taller, prouder than he has ever been.
And I was there, looking at them, looking at us. Looking at these five kids oblivious of the world, loving each other as it if was their last day on earth but they had all the time they needed.
I dreamt about the mosquitos becoming caresses against their naked limbs. I dreamt about that sunset and that moonrise, incessant ballet of lights, I dreamt about the new colours that don’t exist but should always be there, I dreamt about the stars leaving the sky for our eyes.
I keep dreaming about that night in the field, and I’m grateful, not everyone gets to say that their dream became true.


As long as you smile

You said my name and it made sense, I held your body against mine and it made sense. It didn’t make sense like two lovers waking up next to each other, not like two friends laughing together, but more like the sun rising in the East and setting in the West, or spring coming after winter.
Then you smiled, and it felt good. It felt good like the sun caressing my skin in the early morning, or like the arms of Morpheus after an exhausting journey.
And when I raised my sword, you raised yours too, and we stood there. We stood there, not like two warriors fighting for their lives, but more like two kids playing warriors, eager to live.
You talked, and I talked, but not like people talk. We talked like the walls of an abandoned house would.
We have stories to tell, and even more to write.
I have a voice as long as you smile.