There is no real love in you. There is no whisper of morning, the
snow long ago settled into the bushes and trees, with your coffee cup
in your hand; there you're sitting at your seat at the table, in the
front, to the right of the door. And the cats, close to you, like an
egyptian goddess, you are, and your coffee a swirl of endless pits,
dark, looming and gloating on behind the doors of nightmares and
corners that only open to kitten eyes. But your eyes are like emeralds,
have always been. I had your photo standing on my table, next to my
resting head. I was younger than you were back then, only barely.
Nobody has eyes like yours. I walk the crowds; I can't find a trace of you.
Gliding amongst crowds that were only black hair, curled by wind, wavy
as life; they're just paper bag plastic colour. You're not an egyptian
goddess, your cats are not your worshippers. I can't find you anywhere,
nevertheless you never seem to escape me.
Everything about you is sleek and machinelike, powerful and destructive. Your voice is thick with panic,
only the kind that's made to make others sweat in fear while you
reign supreme. Systematic, this is what you're about. Perfect power
machine, manipulating others at your will like tender little puppets.
Your photo was on my nightstand and nobody's got eyes like you. Raw,
pale skin against the photographer's eyes, though he was blind too.
When the sun shines on you, your skin turns crisp, slightly rusty. Your
tan is always wonderful, beautiful, made for you. It matches your
in a way I cannot perceive to decipher.
And the morning that I seem to remember has passed, yet at the same
time, never happened. The hand I held as a little girl has evaporated,
faded. The glamorous dresses have been stowed away into the deepest
pits of the closet, together with empty perfume bottles and old
eyeshadow. Your makeup and accessories, cremes and lotions, have gone
stale. The mothpaper needs to be changed. Next to your drawers and
dreams resides a closet full of ancient suits, repaired men's pants and
old vhs tapes of anal sex. Aren't you all pathetic in your wonderful
pride? You sleep every night, next to something's thats less human than
dead, road kill animal. Maybe all that perfume will disguise the smell.
I have not forgotten about
you, though you never thought about
anyone else than yourself at all. My dreams, awake or asleep, have no
voice in this realm. You reign
supreme, inside your own little crystal
bubble, inside of an enigmatic desire that will be the last thing about
you that shall crumble. The memory of your
amazing emerald eyes, your
coal black hair on skin that perfectly tans; is that all? Is that all
you can offer?
But I own something of you that no one can ever take. I have your
photo; replaying itself over and over again in the depths of my mind,
something that can never grow stale. That which will never rust, never
decay. You will never know, though everyone else does. There is no real
love in you. And I will love you, in all that you never were.