Chaque douleur est une mémoire...

I remember everything.
Each single detail.
I remember how hurt I felt.
How I cried.
My anger against her.
How come had she left us so alone ?
and... Why her ?

Why did I never go to visit her grave ?
Why do I feel her absence every single day ?
Why did I fell apart from those who loved her, too ?
Why did I keep silence during all this time ?
Why do we never speak of it ?
Why do I still have so many unanswered questions ?
Why, whenever I feel bad, do I think it could happen to me, too ?
Why do I still keep my mobile on every night ?
why do tears still roll on my cheeks ?
Why do I need all the insignificants signs of her presence ?


il y a des pourquois qui sont veufs de parce que.
il y a des jours ou il vaut mieux le dire dans une autre langue, pour les moments outre atlantique qui ont cimenté mon passé.



Merci à Veuve Tarquine, chez qui je vais souvent flâner, et dont les mots sont toujours d'un grand soutien.