“He walks away,
The sun goes down,
He takes the day but I’m grown…”
I won’t tell you that you’re handsome like that stripper. Beauty is such a relative term and it’s everywhere. I see it now in the sun, hiding dressed in a blue-pink dress in the plunging neckline of the hills, and the tramway passes and kisses it goodbye. You also kissed my lips gently and said quietly and simply “Bye” with your low male voice. But that was at sunrise.
Going home,staggering through the streets, my heels rattling on the pavement, traveling on the same tramway or one of its twin brothers. I go to bed and fall asleep with a hand between my legs thinking about you. Or about nothing in particular. I may say it only by courtesy but it sounds pretty, doesn’t it? Will your girlfriend read that? Will she see you through the lines? Probably not. You know – I won’t betray you so you let me take pictures with my phone, while you’re kneeling on the dirty floor. Naked. Only in leather boots.
You beg for mercy, making me humiliate you even more. But that’s what you crave. You like it, huh, perv? And so I like you – the decadence allures.
The sun goes down, my cigarette is burning, releasing its poisonous gray fume. I’ll go pour myself some more whiskey from the bottle you gave me. The leftovers from our last night together, the same one with the tramway. While I drink I write about you.
Life is beautiful because of these moments. Because of the experiences we throw behind, like nylons ripped by lust. Life is beautiful. Beautiful in the simple electric illusion of the head lights of the cars that pass by and that we’ll never see again and even if we see – we won’t recognize. Someday we’ll die, we’ll vanish from this world, but our bones will remember these moments somewhere in their complex and dysfunctional structure. We’ll be two lost, dark souls blinded by the light at the end of the tunnel.
I delight in you, because you’re almost mine even when you play that I own you completely. I steal moments with you and I put them carefully in the folder. You’re part of a collection. Soon you’ll be just a trophy hanging on my wall, looking at me with empty, dead eyes. I prowl you, being careful not to make a wrong move and scare you. I weight my moves nine times and then I pull the trigger. I spend too much time in the effort to catch the right moment. I write cliches that come uninvited in my mind and then I erase them and I drink more because I find them stupid. I’m watching you through my virtual glory hole. While I wait for you I see tits and curls. Then you finally show up and I try to put in the hole the parts of me you want to see. I keep the rest for myself – for later when I’ll go home, staggering through the streets, my heels rattling on the pavement, with bruises from the long kneeling on the dirty floor. We’ill have switched roles. And I’ll fall asleep with a hand between my legs.
The decadence allures.