I sewed your silhouette into my subconscious, staring with closed eyes that were too starstruck for words. Your stare was stuck to the cinema screen, serene love story lit up and reflected in your eyes, sweet fantasies, shared in secret as time ticked away, and we dreamed devoted, devious things.
My head felt heavy, hoping to rest on your chest, but propped up by trepidation. Esta noche is endless, or at least it will be when I remember it, for you are my first true love affair, and your stare stays, fixed to the cinema screen, but your hand rests softly in mine, and I will forever be aflame at the thought.
Her dandy, dazed gaze was so disarming, mired in my haunted bliss, and all the promises that I had made her, she was still so surprising, scorching the earth with a smirk on her lips and a cold can of demons in her delicate hand. She tasted like danger, candy from a stranger, the kind of love that God gives out to little girls that he couldn’t quite give up on.
She makes me destructive, but I deserve it, quite richly, for all of my sanctioned suffering, and how my hopes were dashed, my hopes that were once high enough to greet the clouds as they awoke. It is not time to hope, now, it is time to live, to love in a way that makes my father sick, to destroy his daughter and be reborn in the shadow of a soulmate.
She keeps me captive, and I scratch stanzas into the steel bars with short fingernails that deserve to be forgiven, for this is disarming, charming love, destructive to the last second, delicious to the last bite.
The poetry I write says nothing to me about my life, because my life is preciously provincial, still doing the same routines, no matter how I age, writing the same stanzas again and again, chilling but charming, page after page, because it doesn’t matter what I say, my velvet voice makes it much more pleasant.
She told me that I was her favourite thing that I had ever written, so I wrote an affectionate album across each inch of her hands with lonely lips, kiss after kiss, restrained and trained to taper off when it all got too much, and it always gets too much, because heaven is hazy and heated in a way that one can never take for too long.
She talks as if I created myself, but truthfully, I am a creature created by life’s cruelty and God’s gawky sense of humour, getting through it and assessing the damage when everyone else is resting, resisting the urge to ask for a refund on the human experience, because nobody likes a whiner.
So cynical, with so little to say, it’s all so hideous, so hard to hear, the cross of the lord around the neck of a girl with feminine fingerprints across her throat, in a chokehold of my own torment. So little to say that isn’t sullied in sorrow, but, oh, such a sweet little voice, so enunciated, so overrated.