In the dead of the night

She was so socially active it astounded him at times. She would throw her hair, arch her back and laugh whole heartedly at the jokes. She would be interested in what everyone had to say, a kind word and sympathetic advise following every confesion. She would down the shots and smoke the cigarettes, she would dance and taste the music. The cloths were spotless, the attitude was fresh. Sweet irony sometimes tainted her words. So interesting, so smart, so beautiful.

But his fascination had nothing to do with that outgoing side of her. It was in the dead of the night that his sight was offered the show it craved.

Wrapped in a sheat, thinking he was sleeping off their exhaustion, she would open the window and light one of her long cigarettes. Her mind on things he’d never know, her skin speaking a language he will never understand. She would watch the stars, she would feel the ground, she would hear the velvet texture of the air. Words would never exit her smoke drowned lips. Her eyes, green pools, would allude to depths unexplored. Those were the moments she spent with her secrets, with her scars… The woman smoking at that window was one he didn’t know. She was not social, she was not smiling. She was the present. Appreciating how the nicotine helped her think better, her mask off, her features unguarded but unrevealing.

He would go back to sleep, street lights caressing his eyelids.

Silence

A nice long drag out of my Dunhill. I hold the smoke in as much as my lungs will allow me and when I release it I follow it as it infects the air around it.

Control.

Hard thing to learn. Not many people master it. To know when to keep silent. To know when to sigh.

I’m afraid of the things I like. I like silence. I avoid it. It fills me up like a drug. It’s addictive. I’m waiting for the day when I will embrace it. When I will stop using words as shields to repel uncomfortable questions.

I want to live on a mountain with no company but uncaring trees and tired stones. Will anyone be there with me? To interrupt the whispers of the leaves? Will anyone else hear the water breathing? Do I want there to be anyone?

Permission

Let me cruise the world between the pages of a book.

Let me breathe until I'm high on oxygen.

Let me starve, I enjoy the diziness.

Tie me up with useless emotion like copper chains wrapped in velvet strands.

Let me forget to buy a watch, so you can't scold me when I'm late.

Let me spend hours watching my wrists, blood pumping underneath alabaster skin.

I don't want to fly with you, I don't want to fall with them, I want to float by myself.

...

Leaves of purple brush your wind.

Dust of gold grazes your soul.

Drops of light caress your skin.

Wheels of randomness guide your steps.

Paths of sun are closed to you.

Bits and pieces

A tip of despair is all you see even thought there are no corners around.

A strand of excitement, even thought the music is screaming and the hormones competing for dominance.

A branch of help is all you get. Always leaning, never caught. Teasingly retracting at the feel of your fingertips. Bits and pieces, parts of wholes. That's what your life is made of. Never matching, never ending.

Currents

You inspire wind to fall. To abandon horizontal paths. It wants to feel your thrill. It wants to fill your pages. Floating becomes boring after a while, rainstorms are monotonous after a few millenia. It wants to join you on your way down. Screaming adrenalline and building floors to crash on.

Senses

Words taste like cherries from your mouth to mine.

Nightmares smell like grass, freshly cut and screming its loss.

Your air feels like velvet, thick and soft.

Your skin always sings exuberantly. Happy being tied to your flesh, but always searching for more.

Your eyes write volumes when you think that no one is watching.