Phlegm Taste Like Blood

No Man's Land Waste

* Even before we were either lost
Long before we had gained nothing
Long before clubbed
I already knew everything I * know

I really liked the apartment Malo. Sufficiently large, clear, bright. There existed a serenity between white and blank walls. It was a neutral place, a break in the middle of a dilapidated neighborhood in the middle of my life in tatters. I put my suitcases and I forgot everything.

Malo offered me sometimes to take the air out. I agreed half-heartedly, to please him. My air, it was here that I took it between his scattered affairs, reassured each time I opened my eyes on an object that belonged to him. I was not afraid because each parcel of his living room reminded me that he was there. And even when he was absent, it was enough for me to caress her wardrobe to remember.

Malo's apartment was not a apartment. It was entirely Malo, his party for its brand, which was still, all the time, the tangible side of my love always gone.

What I liked best, in Malo was his window. I could stay there for hours, pretending to watch the narrow street below, or the neighbor's cat lying on the terrace. I pretended, yes, because I did not care much for these shabby streets or neighbor's cat. I was waiting Malo join me, it sticks to my back to become my wings, he kisses me and tell me we could go, while both, we no longer need his apartment for them to love, find themselves, and I no longer have to cling to bed because he would always be by my side, it would be the party for all, all for the game, he would by now his body the architecture and its my hands parentheses.

Malo has never reached the edge of the window.
And every time he slammed the door on my no-man's land, an earthquake shattered my spine and cracking clay that covered my life.