Jour cent-quatre-vingt-quatorze. 194/365.

I tucked away my dreams

In a scarlet chest, flowing

With rivers of moldy diamonds.

Rest assured, I cured them like

Expensive spanish hams, cured them

all away. I let them sit and rot

And forgot how beautiful they were before.

Like a cat that would stop grooming itself,

like an old notebook stored in a cupboard full of moth.

My dreams became mothballs, so rancid

They killed the very pest that tried to eat them.

They were surprisingly resistant.

Surprisingly resilient.

They waited, covered in dust, and started growing moss.

Moss turned into grass and my dreams into soil.

First, it was a tough earth, riddled with cracks, but soon enough,

the rotting thoughts turned into brain fertilizer, the best of them all.

A 4-star grey matter compost.

That’s how I started growing hope.

Hope is a weed. An ever-expanding weed that runs along my spine. A tough one that no Roundup will kill. A morning glory that doesn’t choke other ideas. A supporting plant.

Since then,

I am the gardener of my own brain

I know when to let thoughts rot

So hope can grow.

Jour cent quatre-vingt-treize. 193/365.

Je me demande ce qui pleure en moi.

Jour cent quatre-vingt-douze. 192/365.

J'imagine des montagnes sucrées Que nous lècherions à même le flanc Des hauteurs-desserts à l'herbe drue Et dans l'abondance de ta peau, un festin de fleurs fanées.

J'imagine l'écho de la mer sucrine, Des remous- des vagues bonbonnières Périlleuses pour Les genoux saccharose-ecchymose Les bleus appétissants des pays des chimères Que nous mordrions eux aussi de nous mâchoires assoiffées.

Des rivières de salive de voir tout ce paysage affriolant, Lieu des folies, terre-patrie de tes vallées et de tes creux, L'eau qui charrie tous ces rêves caramélisants.