I would lose myself,
Translucent ocean of grief,
Its fluxes dictated by its own moons, chimeras.
In that world;
Lost in its currents,
To glide, drift, caressing that cheek,
Fall - dizziest moment - coming to rest on her breast.
Taste the brine
Bitter with sorrow,
Forbidden dreams, sunken mermaids:
A whole world in torment, crying, calling in its sleep.
This to you:
I feel no desire
To quench those tears, to lift her soul.
Those lips may murmur endearments but the heart smiles, still.
Nathalie Boisard-Beudin is a middle aged French woman living in Rome, Italy. She has more hobbies than spare time, alas - reading, cooking, writing, painting and photography - so hopes that her technical colleagues at the European Space Agency will soon come up with a solution to that problem by stretching the fabric of time. Either that or send her up to write about the travels and trials of the International Space Station, the way this was done for the exploratory missions of old. Clearly, the woman is a dreamer.
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