The clock moves, the day moves, the clock moves, the day moves. She sees, she goes. She feels, she moves. She swims, with Léo, with Loto.
She is going to Paris for the month of July, she will be in Paris for the month of July. Paris, home to Léo, home to Loto. An American in Paris, for the month of July, an American in Paris.
I tell her I will miss her, for the month of July. I will miss her.
The mother, the mother. The father. The father is a concept. The baby is a small idea. But her, in her head. I just mistyped ‘her’ as ‘hear.’ Hear her, in her head. Hear her, the voice of Mimi, so crisp. Could it be real? It could. But, to hear her, as the day moves.
“I’d like to tell her,” like, I wanted to tell her, so I told her. She told me she would be in Paris for the month of July. In Paris, with a scar along her belly, a husband beside her, a dog to lick the wound. To think of her, him, them, altogether. Mimi says it would be so awesome. Do I believe her? I don’t know. But, her scar along her belly, her dog that licks the wound.
But, to feel her. I want to read her, to watch her. To hear her move, as the clock moves, c/o Léo, c/o Loto, c/o PERMALNK, all in Paris, altogether, with her, for the month of July. To tell her, at 12pm, at 2pm, at 3am. I want to see her, I scroll through to her. At 12pm, at 2pm, at 3am. To see her, to hear her, to move her.
More about: Léo Hoffsaes & Loto Retina
