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I wasn’t expecting to cry.

I laid a stake in theses cobbled streets the way an astronaut plants a flag on the moon.

Look at you Sarah, look at how you’ve grown: thick-skinned, silver tinsel in your hair, money just numbers floating in the air.  

A temporary installation.
A temporary summer.
A temporary life. 
Filed under:
poetry, paris, portraits

you cannot tether a free spirit
you cannot saddle a wind horse

you don’t have to tell me

that chasing el sol
watching the seasons

when sprouts spring
and blossoms bloom
with words like petrichor

the world exploding from grey to green
rewarding you for all your suffering

and when the leaves begin to fall
and summer whispers prophetic sweet nothings
just before her final breath

it’s all the orgasm
that I’ll ever need.
Filed under:
poetry, pantin

entre les falaises
I could enunciate the details of every single rock that sunk
and clamored beneath our feet
craggy but soft
eroded by a hundred years of salt baths
each and everyone of them called out my name

I put two of them in my pocket.

“Hold onto those rocks,” you said
“They’re sacred.”

Clenching them in my fists
I feel the rumble of the ocean
the wind in my hair
the fetid smell of algae and seaweed
the soft ripple of tide pools

no matter where I am.

The way you wrapped a tea bag around the handle of a coffee mug.
The way you’d crush the bottle before throwing it in the bin.
The way you added a little water to the pot before heating the leftovers.

These are the things that I’ll keep with me forever.
Filed under:
poetry, portraits, love

humans in the parc de la poudrerie
The leaves vibrating in the trees muffle the sounds of a not-so-distant civilization. Faint echos of human children, an ambulance siren, a whinnying police horse: timeless and familiar human sounds.

Read more © 2022
(there are other sarah rose’s, but this is the new one)