My mind is lost in the chalet
Embedded in woods deep in
The south of France
Mais c’est jolie, ils sont dit
The omnipresent tug of despair
Grounding me like all the
Flights I should have been on
With people I loathe to miss
The water in the river tugs my clothes
In all the right places, plays with my
Hair to coddle me, the sweet distraction
Pretending the current doesn’t carry me
To rocks at the end, bottom of the
Barrel, sleeping in the dirt with the worms
Red wine from Cahors staining my lips
Hungry fingers running over a filthy
Dress, begging to be kissed

3AM Thoughts // AKA “L’amour fou.”