"A rare find, between love and tenderness. She had no other address. She was named after a flower and lived among words. Adjectives pulled by their hair, verbs that grew like weeds, some entering by force. She entered softly, from my skin to my heart. In love stories there isn’t always just love. Sometimes there isn’t a single "I love you".Yet, we do love. A rare find. I met her by chance in the park. She did not take much space, the size of a pigeon with its feathers. Wrapped in words, in names, like mine. She gave me a book, and another pages that exploded in front of my eyes. Do not go right now, it’s not the time, wait. It is not the time, little flower. Give me some more of yourself. Give me some more of your life. Wait.
In love stories, there isn’t just love.
Sometimes there is not a single “I love you”.
Yet, we do love each other.”
La tête en friche (My afternoons with Margueritte)