The rising of your chest, in dead of winter.
Confide, but don't confess: You're lost and turning bitter.
You said we're like maps, we all change with battles past,
With victory and loss, only few will count the cost.
Used in love and war,
Bodies tattered and their torn.
Drawn with lines and coordinates,
Love in only present tense.
And now I feel these lines
the ones that you described,
along my ribs and spine.

SOUMETTRE LES CORRECTIONS