Cent et Un Mots par Jour

Cent et Un Mots par Jour


He was there. You saw him out of the corner of your eyes. You blinked. He's gone. You're turning around in the middle of the crowd, but he's nowhere to be seen. He was tall, with brown hair and green eyes. There was a mole above his upper lips. He wore a dark blue sweater, and a white shirt under it. He smelled of wood and spices. You can hear his deep voice... He's a ghost from the past, a cloud of smoke that the wind has blown away. A memory of summer afternoons in the park with a bottle of water as the only shield against the heat. Of lazy evenings in front of the TV, eating crisps and snacks. Of silent rendez-vous around a table in a quiet restaurant. The salty tears rolling on your cheeks are bitter and cold. The crowd closes around you and you choke.



Claire Annovazzi

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