Scars

She was found by him wandering as a ghost, looking for the man who had hurt her. She carried scars like tracks which could be seen when under the dead light of a streetlamp.

She entered an old and sombre building. He followed her and discovered an entire word there, in front of a half-opened door. A candle laid on a softwood bedside table where the shadow of a dress, hung on a wordrobe door, fell on. From where he was, he couldn´t see the woman but could hear her shuffling, see the candle flame wave when she walked. Then she saw him entering the room. She made such an abrupt movement that the candle went out, the lugubrious smoke flooding in the air.

Only their voices could be heard and when he finally saw her face, he realized there were no scars there, only pain. 

memories

She was there near the window. He could see her backwards, her spine, the  vivid shape of a salamander. The first sun beams running on her body as waves in a coulourful sea. He had never known anyone like her.

He was there, his head on the pillow, the sheets still like lifeless leaves resting on an empty street. Emptiness. That´s what he felt when he closed his eyes and fully realized she was ready to leave him.

She was still backwards, he could see her face reflected in the window pane, he tried to draw her features on his mind and frame them there, craving for them to escape the hands of time.

But he couldn´t do it. He knew that not only her features but also her shape, voice, and all she represented to him would fade away, would be asphyxiated. 

When she was finally gone, he looked at the room, empty of  her feminine figure. There was a subtle happiness though. She had left a perfume in the air. He knew he would always have her scent and the sultry memories.

He didn´t want much more from life, afterall.  

Tiffany blue box

What´s in a Tiffany blue box?

A heart that should be warmed, the first letter of a lover´s name, the lock to one´s feelings, a marriage that has endured, a much expected birth, an unexpected engagement, the end of a Christmas night, a trivial birthday party among loved ones, a prelude to love making, a confession. 

Trust and gold ironically interwoven.  

Watching Breakfast at Tiffany´s on a Friday night pretending to be happy just because nobody asked.  

Or just a foolish way to make amends for the loss of intimacy. 

Symphony

He drank a gulp of vodka and put the glass on the window sill. There was still some of the transparent liquid left. He liked to do that, watch the day beginning to break on that glass, the drink touched by sun. But it would be a long journey into the night.

He tried to distinguish the shapes of his violin in the room, he had given up the candles because of the mournful look they brought to the place, his instrument turned into a ghost.

The loudest sound heard there came from the voices of the women wandering the streets. He would like to go there, talk to them. But he knew he would never go.

When the morning came, the voices were not heard anymore. The trees were motionless under the limpid sky. There was no wind, only a presage of sun and a coloured glass of vodka.

It was only him and his violin now, and the symphony of the voices echo in the room.

I fell for him

I fell for him as someone who falls for a drug. I fell for the  wrinkles that framed his smile, for the voice that when whispered in my ears flooded my body with shots of pleasure, running through my veins with an unknown violence.

I fell for his body against mine,  warming me like a second skin,  making my breath stop for endless seconds  and a soft scream come from my chest  and lose itself In the darkness of the room.

I fell for his hands that when touched me made my blood pulse as if I were an organ, for his kiss that made my mind empty of sorrows and my eyes torpid.

I fell for the  loneliness in the mornings, when his body detached from mine, leaving a bitter taste of absence in my mouth and a feeling of emptiness.  

Yellowish eyes

He gazed out of the window. In the room facing his, he saw the woman with yellowish eyes. They were yellowish like amber, the shades inside them creating erotic designs. There was a white and thin curtain at her window. When the light was on, the cloth looked orange and a perfume would come from the night as if it was coming from her glassy, colored eyes.

He would  wait for her to look at him, with those eyes composed with liquids. She finally turned to him, her look tinging the rain that has started to fall.

He opened the window. He wanted to ask for her name. But she turned off the light and disappeared into the darkness of her room.

There was now only the damp smell of concrete brought by the wind filling the void between them while her eyes remained yellowish for a stranger.