There was too much vintage wallpaper, almost torn off
like the brand labels removed from the shampoo bottle
and the stylish books ordered
pretentious theory in the living room, stupid fiction next to the bed,
demonstrating the tortured ambivalence
of his character. Drunk,
betting next to my pulpy innocent twenty-one years old self
his puppy eyes transpire
Why can’t I touch you?
Sitting nearby, at a secure distance
rolling a failed joint although I don’t even smoke
weed, his sight decode that I’m too
young too french,
the pseudo-arrogant attitude I dressed up with,
sitting on his Harlem balcony (where I’ve seen her ex-wife read the newspaper, Instagram)
tries to prove him
While moaning and writhing on the sofa,
he murmured: Irish people are fucked-up.
Irish misogynist divorced men, precisely. There’s not a thing to chew bitter
in the city that never sleeps so I happily taste
his mouth; pretentious reader, skilled kisser.
With the cold breeze, I could barely see the road
Riding on my bike I thought
What a stupid idea, meeting a stranger at dawn
Excited, even though I remembered previous mistakes
Or perhaps risks is the highway for feelings and this night
need the greatest ingredients I had been too silent,
too still for long enough now
The encounter with the feminine voice drops
my fantasm into the deadly cold water, and then rain?
I propose to go to mine, even though I remembered
I have a highway to fill in,
I have sorrows to bury,
dreams to fulfill,
illusions to design
will you help me with it
I want one of those nights, one of these moments where one says: Yes. That. That’s why I am here. That’s what’s it’s worth. I want these again.
What if - the entity you love and desire, the one you look up to and feel caressed by, what if you repress this entity, what if it wants to fly, to become else, what if they love someone else, love this exact same thing which you can't be, what if you sense it and you never mention it at all? Are you then a partner in this crime?