scavenger, saviour

thick faced grief lives on in old pictures, but now the thin years of hunger and hard work. the heart has beaten itself achey, but beats on, etc. the legs have walked and pumped and kicked themselves into wiry fatigue. reading your name on my palms in the none too warm bathtub after the fever breaks and the edith piaf tape has long since clicked and is waiting to be switched. mais moi, j'ai dans le coeur de quoi toujours aimer. my mother says to be too proud, my father tries to change the subject.