The Dungy Bathroom, Your Eternal Place

Your eternal physical presence can be found inside my dungy bathroom... The rotten white soap still rests on the bath tube which stills conserve the moisture of the hot water we showered with; along the bath tube the soap original gray essence revives the time you were taking a bath. How sad it is to think that long time has passed since you left.

The water basin is clouded with all types of gels and other dispensable care utensils you brought along to your trip, like my memory of you, they are yet to be removed from the bathroom. Don’t worry I don’t expect no cleaning lady. How sad is to see the battery-power toothbrush abandoned, which you last used to brush your perfect teeth.

The floor is dusted, the stinted bathroom pad is filled with scattered dirt containing single remembrances of your cheveux friés, which upon being discovered I picked each one of them and posited them inside the pages my collection of Russian literature.

The squeezed toothpaste that you proclaimed yours while in Aix still awaits is termination; remember that is the Crest Total Tartar control you constantly used to bright your smile and deliverability imposed to me before kissing you. Thus is my dungy bathroom, an old chambre intact by time and filled with objects that pertain solely to me and I used to produce an atypical anguish avec memoires de toi. There are more objects of yours that I preserve. My distorted room has lived changes so thus speak, but contains valuable remembrances characterized by their distorted nature of out time together, from their respective abandonment in a particular place to where they were left last and to which now repose in solitude.

My graffiti-filled computer desk contains many of these valuable objects, par example the glass with all the three original cigarettes butts tu as fumé rest on the right side of my computer monitor; the ashes at the bottom of the glass have smutted the glass thus giving it a rare beauty, the smell characterization of cigarettes as a health hazard is gone. On the extremities of the right, rest the purple disposable camera with seven pictures taken while in New York City, your last pictures which I objectively refuse to develop until this day. On the top shelve, a clandestine black and white picture of the two during the unforgettable sangria party at the 16, rue des Tanneurs resides in the middle of some disregarded notes I took when I went to Denver in search of being. In the same shelve, there is the lasting impression of yours, an empty space your books left when I shammed had to send them back to you after my impulses defiled and ravished you.

So much time has passed and my dungy bathroom now it is a beautiful monument in the one of my rooms where I write and read. You started it all.