Once you’re in love and you purchase a brand new coat, you’re keen on your new coat. You like to put on it and take it off, you’re keen on setting it on the again of a chair with a touch of your lightness inside, a touch of you in a lighter state. You’re keen on its sleeves and its collar, the wildly old school scarf you loosely stuff in it, the way in which you shut it midway up your chest, the way in which it zips impeccably on you—and to know that it’s you, inside, who’s in love. You’re keen on the coat, with which you won’t discover love once more, however nonetheless, maybe you’ll. And on the road you’re ideally coated—similar to as a small little one while you wore your first coat, and its camel beige carried you thru the colours of those instances like a fable, a playground, a backyard, Bois-Colombes, the best aperture of sky within the basin, a morning snowfall in a backyard that existed solely on this event. Once you’re in love and also you have a look at the sky, you’re keen on trying on the sky and you’re keen on the sky. Loving to have a look at the sky, loving the sky, you may’t inform, they develop into one. You possibly can’t inform the place the sky begins. You possibly can’t inform the place your love ends. You possibly can inform solely that you simply’re sporting your little coat.
A Poem by Cécile Mainardi: ‘My New Coat’