couleur menthe à l'eau

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I'm sipping from the moon, from the sin and
from diaphanous hours, plunged
in me in you in us to carry a bit of happiness.

I'm sniffing from the nights, from whimsy stars
enough to bring 'em in your soul from my soul
filled with stories ripped from sunrise.

Consider me guilty. Blame me for I'm writing
these epistles. But my longing for you
is analgesic. It's pure amphetamine...

Is something translucent that turns darkness,
teaching me to crawl in, among, and towards
a light that lets you dream inside me...

Is my climax syllabled by you, the chosen, —
the one trained in the couleur menthe à l'eau,
the one which my mind and soul listen to...

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