by Jean-Michel Maulpoix
The woman who loves me has light eyes. Her movements are calm, her
words always sensible. Sometimes I blame her for the wisdom I lack. I heap
sarcasm on her and leave her for differently winged and fanciful
creatures, who resemble the strokes of the pen that free me from my
heaviness. But I always come back to her, toward her clean, fragrant
home where there is plenty of room for my white-paged afternoons.
-from A Matter of Blue