we always end on a quiet tone.
when we remember what it was like.
as we look back, fondly on the happy days, in pain on the fighting nights.
also as we taste kisses again and feel each other.
inside and out.
At the end of a run, I stand at a crossing.
Can go many directions.
Sweat dripping of my hands.
I imagine holding your face in them again.
Fondly. Tasty. Pretty. Sweet.
When did I forget your tenderness?
When did you remember mine?
Was it all long since replaced by violence?
Two figures in black.
White yellowish skin shining through.
A grand smile on their faces, coming towards me.
Immortalised in my word progression.
I take their life’s and make them part of mine.
As they walk past my dancing self, smiling at me.
Maybe imagining the deed I have done.
Same as the cat last night.
I had to get off my bike to watch it closer.
It laid down on the street and purred.
But did not let me come close enough.
Till rain started to fall and we parted.
A red light in the distance.
I cannot see it, my glasses are off.
And wearing them, I see it’s an ambulance.
Or the police.
It draws me in, as I draw in here.
And now for a dance.
A pink Vespa.
A colour as if it wants to be licked right off.
I guess my sex drive is back.
Bouncing off me like sunshine.
And I notice short skirts and on top scared faces.
I fully understand, though I am certainly not one of them.
Having survived rape and attacks I couldn’t ever, not even in play.
Added violence only scares me.
I only add violence to my walking dance, throwing my head around, not looking out for walls.
Pain has always been better then nothing at all.
And no pretty face has ever drawn me in like yours or yours or yours and so on. Pretty & beautiful. My drug of choice.
Watching you. In my kitchen at night, sipping a beer, discussing with me meanings and life.
And I remember your tongue on my lips, finding and searching.
And I remember your eyes wide open, taking in the memories I share.
And you are different people for now.
But we are all connecting internally as if part of a shared memory.
Mine, where I melt you all, past, present and future.
It’s not an/my ideal.
Just fond memories of things that came to pass and will and didn’t and won’t.
It’s a game they say.
It’s my reality.