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  • Depinal


It takes years for the pages of my favourite books

to age into their perfect shade:

from almost-white sun

-a haze disappearing into blindness-

to over-brewed tea

-a warmth spreading into sore limbs-

Even hidden away,

pages can be exposed to sunlight and air,

consuming the paper into cold amber.

I’m looking for the perfect shade of time

to match my complexion;

sleep deprived and deep in the winter of my mind,

with just a ray of light shining through the blinds.

Even hidden away,

words can be exposed to sunlight and air,

old embers slowly turning my favourite pages to silence.

I can wait with my consuming book

until too much air, too much light

stain me into wordlessness

or I can keep looking for myself

-a broken tint of books flung wide open

no matter how long the ink has settled on the page

no matter how long the word has settled on the shelf-

no sun nor breath to betray me

as I can be :

flying sparks over the bonfire,

combusting away in a second,

or resin left from a long forgotten tre,

leaving stories for others to see.

It takes years for the pages of my life

to write themselves in honey

-wide and soft open field laying in the summer-

but I’m not looking anymore for my

perfect shade of brokenness

to spill through the blinds

I'm simply letting the hues

of sunlight and air

expose me.

Depinal, born, unsurprisingly, in Epinal (France) in 1994, discovers »Les Yeux d'Elsa« at 14, falls in love with »This Must Be the Place« by the Talking Heads at 19, oscillates wildly on the page ever since.


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