Ophelie Deslys

A Bottle in the Vienne

At my grandmother’s house
leaves lie scattered on the table.
I write on the floor.

She watches me
fold the paper very tight
without saying a word.

My head is overflowing.
Really.

My head is a construction site.
It never stops.

Est-ce lui l’admirateur secret qui me glisse de petits mots gênants — et excitants — dans mon casier ?

My head is overflowing.
Really.

My head is a construction site.
It never stops.

Je la regarde partir.
Elle pose sa main
dans mon dos.

Le livre ouvert,
le silence s’épaissit —
le soir se penche.

Qui sont ces invités mystérieux ?

Today I am tired.
Not only physically.
Tired of hoping.

I look at my site.
Ten visits.
Sometimes less.

I haven’t been sleeping well lately.
I go to bed late.
I write late.
I think too much.

I look at the numbers.
They are small.
They make more noise in my head than they should.

Un soir, Ophélie s’endort. Quelqu’un l’attend de l’autre côté.