Inside us

The shadows dissolve into the pale breath of morning. Paris, and Elisabeth’s hands tracing invisible constellations in the cold air. White is not absence, but memory — a whisper left on a mirror, the salt that lingers after a kiss. Berlin hums with desire. A woman stares at me, her face tinged with red desire. The sea speaks in a quiet monologue, time becomes superfluous. Claudette, fragile between naked sheets, and the soft echo of an unsent letter. Presence and absence, the beautiful and the terrible, the darkness, the passion — the drunken anxiety of living.