the other night I opened a book little known
Speaking of things and others.
But not you
I watched
photos scattered on the table in my room. Very conventional
I looked in Street head
bystanders.
few nice things
And sometimes I forget that I am
One.
Very little
Oh! Yes, of course you blame me
Too see without looking. Or the reverse
But I would rather know that I'm
Not like you. I prefer
And if tonight I'm afraid, at least I am consoled
In reading a few lines.
Two, three
From it I know everything I know
And everything you need to know. On
me in my absence I feel like a melancholy
Little more, no less.
And that's a lot
I do not want to be happy if
I do not deserve it.
It seems honest
How
finally ending If we want to finish worthy? By
a question?
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