That day I was painting and I was wishing every stroke from my brush was dropping love on my canvas.
I was saying “love” for every orange stroke I was giving.
I was listening to Camille and I started singing. I forgot to say “love” for every orange stroke.
Pale Septembre il serait temps de s’entendre sur le nombre de jours qui jonchent le sol
J’ai troqué l’amour pour la poésie.
A moins que ce ne soit l’inverse.