6. Mai 2026

poppy collection

France in May: a field of green wheat, dotted with red poppies. How many times, as a child, did I squeeze the green-and-black capsule until it burst and left its mark on my skin? Then I look at the stars, the air not yet warmed by the approaching summer. I hear your breathing settle into a steady rhythm, and I fall asleep to it.
I gently press the now-dry capsule into the clay.
Memories often fade, but the imprint they leave is worth more than many sharp images. Every time I touch the pendant and feel the hollow left by the poppy, my lips curve into a smile, I can’t help it, and I suppose you can’t either.