Just found this in the notebook I keep by my bed; I apparently wrote this sometime during the night last night.
La Lune Brille Sur La Neige
I lie here, listening to the heartbreak in a Cajun voice. The emptiness of the bed - a cold reminder of your absence, like the whiteness of the snow on a late April night.
The bottle of pills calls my name, Rosemary's sweet voice beckoning me to a place of dull ache with no pain. But I search for your words instead, the Siren's Song that reminds me why I'm still here.
Mais ma veine de Lumière Blanche va bientot s'éteindre.
Dawn will come and the streak of light from the streetlamp will stop pointing to the broken pieces of this puzzled doll and all that will remain will be Rosemary's whisper, a soft goodbye of spilled moon and dial tones.
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