The wine
of love fills us.
We are inebriated
with loving each other
distantly.
I can’t gather you more closely
than this.
I am a chalice
of red lace at the window.
You are intoxicating
blossoms bursting
colour over the landscape of my
heart.
Sheath of feeling. Words groping to touch air.
An impressionistic response to Truffaut’s, The 400 Blows 1959
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