On Segalen

It’s a strange midnight : as I lie here almost sleepy from the blue gin, reading letters not written to me by a lover not mine, remembering the taste of kisses that were stolen in another life. I have heard, my dear, although I am not sure, that old wine is more potent. What, then, happens to old kisses? The ones that remain in the air, in our eyes, in our perfectly preserved dead bodies, the ones still undetectable by modern microscopes. My dear, write to me letters as present and as hidden as ancient kisses. Write to me, not from this life which is not ours, but from another one: centuries old, where sitting on the steps, we are reading steles that will be written sometime in the future.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: