you and i, we've made this fire, and we'll always have something
to burn as long as we're living, 'cause when we run out of
flammables we'll set ourselves on fire and sit calm like monks
while our flesh burns beneath light dancing orange and yellow.

or maybe we'll run around screaming and crying and gnashing
our teeth and tearing out our hair - either way it'll be
god damned beautiful, lover - we will be falling stars;
our bodies will fold and curl like rose petals burning.

well, if we don't set ourselves on fire, we'll at least jump out
of a plane and not pull the parachute cord - we'll just fall;
we'll not be sad as weightless years pass peacefully

then we land hard on grass and dirt that will break us open:
all we are will all spill out and sink into the earth and
we'll not be sad 'cause there will be fourteen flowers growing.

Moi, j'avais jamais rien dit. Rien

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