During this night I dreamed about Death,
and you did too, isn't it?

She wasn't far She was just here.
And I don't know if the sores on your wrists
were her front door
but
you were empty of life.

This night I dreamed of Death personified,
and you did so, isn't it?

And I cried for someone I knew
and he wiped the tears on my chest
'cause he knew you too.

This night I dreamed about your death
and he did so, with me.

She lets on your wrists
some white inert wounds.

This night I dreamed about your death and I arrived too late,
you too, isn't it?
It was done already.

This night I dreamed
he was the one dying
and I ran with you by my side.

And I wanted to see him,
and I saw you:
livid corpse on a stair's step.

Bent over yourself you were,
already dead colored.

Damn, why were these sores white already?

Rotted scene
without blood when I just arrived.

People, I wasn't the first one...

Which one of you already?

It was clean but disgusting.
You were empty and line-less.

With your own hands!

We know it because we ran
from when we felt your hands wasn't here anymore.

A bitter taste in my mouth when I kiss him without you,
a cold in my body when he touches me without your fingers,
it doesn't leave me.

Nuits blanches as the lines on his raw wrists,
Nuits blanches as ours skins hiding from the sun,
during the healing only...

I don't know with which one of you I was,
but this unreality I don't know,
if I would fix it.

In the morning it's still present
truer than when I was slumbering.
I feel tired as if I stropped crying.
But it's on my skins they are the striped striae, the scored scars.
Yet it wasn't me,
it wasn't him neither cause he sleeps next to me.

But you,
who had more reason than us,
but imagine...

loving each other in two when we were three.

*** et hop ! en anglais :) parce que je ne sais jamais choisir entre l'anglais et le français pour ces textes qui rendent bien dans les deux langues...