Rue Prince Arthur

These streets are cold and brittle. Every step reminds me of you, the slightly uncomfortable walks we took together, avoiding gravel and glances as we move from place to place, place to place, always moving, scared to be still. Still, the memory of the cold warms me, the memory of your lips that broke with blood and ice as you defiantly declared that last night you had taken scissors and cut off placenta-like morality, that you had bled all night, that blood demanded to be free.

Crisp clean and broken you were that day we walked for an hour through the snow, and that is how I remember you.