As someone who throughs Baudelaire’s poems as if they were thighs on the carpet.

The one I love, resonant as the morning and who seems to be a light’ ray, clean and clear…underground and lonely… who does not stop stealing my dream during the night… because I come from there, with this outdated confession… to her, who suddenly is another one. Who does not love me and say my name anymore… with her little dirty feet because of her travels through world… who does not want to be between my sheets… who travels as an echoes repeating herself far away… with returning wrapping… scratched…intimate and beautiful as a washed garment… as the short poem of our love… as the pale thighs of the one who does not love me… laying here… as handkerchief in exile… with her only gaze, the fragile essence of every thing… although you choke the verb you can understand, eternal dream of a lost woman… she does not share my sweat of this wild love… and her voice is a veil… little flag fluttering in the station…