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      Își plecase capul pe genunchiul meu formând un unghi de zece grade spre stânga. O priveam în ochi dar simturile mele erau concentrate pe bătăile inimii Ei. Pulsa de sete iar zâmbetul schițat pe fața Ei indica o dulce tristețe. Acela era momentul realizării; oare este posibil să ai aceiași realizare de mai multe ori cu aceiași intensitate? 

   Lumea mea era asezata pe canapea, fumul excesiv de țigară îngreunând respirația, cel puțin așa mi-am zis eu, în ideea că mă voi crede. O priveam, o admiram, o devoram până am simțit că-mi scap inima. Mă aflasem în punctul în care organul meu vital și-a dat drumul, lăsând picături de sânge să se amestece cu moleculele aerului poluat; îi simțeam bătăile – într-un fel încă avea viață; poate mai în viață de atât nu se putea – în timp ce se pregătea de prăbușire; nu știam ce impact va avea căzătura mea, probabil fatală, dar a prins-o la o distanță de un milimetru.  Își plecase capul pe genunchiul meu formând un unghi de zece grade spre stânga. O priveam în ochi dar simturile mele erau concentrate pe bătăile inimii Ei. Pulsa de sete iar zâmbetul schițat pe fața Ei indica o dulce tristețe. Acela era momentul realizării; oare este posibil să ai aceiași realizare de mai multe ori cu aceiași intensitate? 

Incepusem să respir prin ea; îi furam oxigenul, dându-i cât mai rămăsese din al meu, îl inhalam si îl dădeam înapoi. Fenomenul se repeta continuu cu o exactitate necontrolată a secundelor. Amortisem fizic iar ea își mula perfect mișcările după ale mele. Nu aveam nevoie de gândire pentru a face următorul gest. Eram concentrată doar pe viață, incercam sa trăiesc, efectiv, la propriu, trăiam din Ea și Ea din puținul meu. 

Își pleca capul într-o parte și îi respiram pielea din zona gâtului; aroma ei se transformase în oxigenul meu. Sărutul, acest gest inexplicabil, fizicul, atingerea, nu erau de ajuns. Căutam în mine, undeva, cumva, să gasesc mai mult; nu aveam ce să-i dau mai mult.

În momentul acela am simțit o apăsare, o durere al dracului de frumoasă. Îmi luam oxigenul în continuare de parcă ar fi fost deja o normalitate iar în fața ochilor mei aveam cea mai cumplită imagine a Lumii. Imi priveam inima cum îngenunchează în fața Ei, pleacă jumătate din ea în față, se lasă incet și-și dă drumul în fața Ei. Zâmbeam, mă simțeam cum zâmbesc; ochii mei s-au umplut de lacrimi , gest de admirație a imaginii inimii mele. Mă asteptam la urmatorul său gest. Nu a făcut nimic. Aveam inima in genunchi în fața Ei iar ea o admira precum eu; privirile ei arzând iadul din mine. 

     O priveam lângă mine, îi înconjuram trupul și nu-mi puteam stăpânii dorința de a o inspira. Ochii îi luceau iar zâmbetul era ascuns în spatele unei seriozități ce arăta a realizare. Este oare posibil să ai aceiași realizare de mai multe ori? Căci în privința ei, am aceiași realizare în fiecare noapte și nu se pierde sentimentul de necrezut. 

     

     Mi-am ridicat inima și am pus-o la locul ei odată cu trezirea noastră la realitate. Fermecată de momentele anterioare, mi-a șoptit că mai vrea. I-a făcut plăcere să îngenuncheze în fața Lumii. Oare știa ce își dorește? Oare Lumea urma să o mai prindă? 

Da domnilor, știu, întrebări fără sens. 

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Antiexemplu.

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Nu-i cunosc povestea soro dar îți voi lămuri incertitudinile prin a-ți prezenta varianta mea, cea imaginară, cea pe care văd prin ochii tăi. Îmi cer iertare anticipat că-mi permit această perversitate. 

Îmi sare in peisaj, imaginea unui Bukowski. Așa îl percep eu. Domnilor, pauză; nu mă întrebați de ce îmi bat capul sa vă povestesc despre el. Ați implorat să o cunoașteți; v-o prezint pe Ea.

Nu fiți atât de ipocriți încât să-mi cereți un nume. Nu vi-l dau. Nu îl meritați. Ea, “Ea” este mai mult decât vă imaginați.

Revenind la el. Sau la “El”.

El părea în ochii mei un paradoxal, un om sărit de pe fix, un bărbat antiexemplu.

În imaginația mea chinuită de gânduri, El este înalt, bine modelat, fața acoperită de un așternut subtil de păr; mi-o imaginez des frecând obrazul ei fin de acea barbă, copil fiind, rareori cât să păstreze stratul subțire de gheață intact. Mi-o mai imaginez fredonând melodii pe ritmul buzelor lui, privindu-l când el se uită înapoi.

Țineți seama cuvintelor mele domnilor. Sunt alese cu atenție și apăsare pe suflet.

Mă întreb dacă și el, ca și Ea, are vreun tic ce-i trădează cursul sângelui. Oare și al lui curge pe verticală?

Își înghițea mâhnirea plutind dar sarea transpirației îi permitea să plutească. Oare ce metaforă o fi aceasta?

Își inhala fericirea precum fumul unei țigări jumătate stinse. O aprofunda. Si Ea, de altfel, o aprofundează. În cazul ei, fericirea era o căzătură a sufletului, o mărginire a iubirii, un instinct ce nu trăda. N-am de unde să știu ce înseamnă pentru El fericirea dar știu că fericirea lui este orice amintire o cuprinde.

Vocile lor se aseamănă; la fel de degajate, extremiste, pline de trăiri. “Iartă-mi expresia”, zise ea.

Mi-am imaginat peisajul dulce și în același timp, amar, al adevărului, al jurămintelor, al iertării, al unui lac calm, al tăcerii.

Se auzea liniștea copleșitoare. Ea surâde cu mândrie la prima mișcare a firului. El o privește uitându-se înainte, spre lac.

Domnilor, nu mai așteptați explicații. O privește ca pe o umbră a sa. Îi cunoaște trăsăturile precum și le cunoaște pe ale lui.

Nu sare în sus de fericire nici la a doua întindere a firului. Își așteaptă momentul. Răbdarea este un dar chinuitor. Firul se strânge și o trage în jos. Este o întreagă artă în a prinde prada perfectă.

Iarăși îi copleșește liniștea amortitoare. Îl vad cum își destinde chipul și îi bate un apropo. Peștele se sperie de râsul ei colorat dar neputincios și perturbat, mușcă.

El comentează ceva cu haz și mândrie. O glumă auzită prin colivii de vrăbii.

“Tată, aruncă-mi momeala aia”, zise Ea.

Cine este Ea?

Tu o cunoști.

Cine este El?

Un alt soi de Bukowski.

El, despre ea.

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     Îmi fură privirea. Mișcările ei se rătăcesc in fața ochilor mei și-mi fură privirea. Îmi spulberă glasul. Este evident că lumea din jur există; numai dacă ai știi că defapt e nesemnificativă!

     Îți plimbi piciorul stâng în cerc; un cerc mic cât să nu se observe mișcarea. Îl aduci aproape de cel stâng si împingi pământul cu vârful lui. În secunda doi a revenit la normal. Ai acționat în stres; oare te stresa privirea mea? Oricum n-ai văzut-o. Dar poate ai simțit-o. Iei comanda lunaticului. O fii și el ca mine?

     Strângi masa corporatistilor îndreptand același picior, cel stâng, in aer; dreptul n-are nicio reacție. Fenomenal. Impecabil. Ce e atât de impecabil? Ai rabdare. Până la urmă o să te prinzi. Impecabil. Ce?

Modul în care se mișcă doar partea corpului ce străpunge în mod direct inima. De parcă sângele ti-ar pompa pe verticală! Oare așa o fi in cazul tău? Oare ție iti pompează sângele doar pe verticală? Oare de aici provine ”impecabilitatea” ta?

     Scoți micul tău jurnal cu rapiditate și zambești larg. Un pic forțat. E de înțeles. Masculul din fața ta nu-ți merită zâmbetul. Pentru câteva secunde nimeni nu-ți vede fața; ai profitat pe deplin de moment pentru a-ți da drumul la buze. S-au întins formând o linie dreaptă. Parcă ironică.

     Gesticulezi cu mâna stânga, fredonând cu degetul pe meniu. Spatele îți este un pic aplecat peste umarul masculului și pentru a – nu știu cât-a oară – piciorul stâng se pliază. Oare ce-ți surâde în cap?

     Așezi o masă de patru; iar folosești doar mâna stânga pe tacâmul ăla. Al patrulea l-ai aranjat cu ambele mâini. Oare ce a fost in capul tău în momentul acela?

     Ți-ai scos iar jurnalul si pixul.  Te joci cu ele, cu mâna stângă bineînțeles; forțând o privire spre masa din fața mea. Oare coada ochiului tău m-a prins?

    Te îndepărtezi de mine în grabă, îți cauți de lucru; de data asta gesticulând cu mâna dreaptă.

Te-ai apropiat de blonda sprijinită de casă și ți-ai înfipt mâinile în ceafa ei. Ai zâmbit, lăsând greutatea ta pe stângul.

     Ți un pahar de spumă in stânga, mergând cu bărbia în sus, citesc un zâmbet ecstatic pe fața ta; oare îți place să fii privită?

Hm. Nu mă pot abține din a zâmbi de data asta. A fost prea de tot.

Iar ai mângâiat pământul cu vârful piciorului stâng, el îndreptat spre mine iar fața ta perpendiculara cu a mea; asta o înțelegi doar dacă poți să vezi și tu perpendicular in aer.

     Te-am lăsat un pic în pace dar parcă îmi vine sa te privesc din nou. Iar faci mișcarea aia cu piciorul stâng. Ce ai ființă cu pământul?

     Te duci la masa mediocrilor și râzi. Dacă ar știi ei ca tu defapt ai râs in ciuda lor!

    Timpul se scurge repede. Te văd peste zidul de lemn luând nota cu un zâmbet de “pleacă acasă dar nu mă uita”. Satisfăcută te întorci la colțișorul tău si îndrepți o privire doritoare spre masa de lângă. Ți-a surâs un corporatist. E de înțeles.

     Setezi iar o masă mușcând încet din buze. A fost un gest de nervozitate. Oare știai că te privesc?

Te-am pierdut în spatele unui perete; mai revine un pic în spate zâmbetul tău și te pierd iar. Pleci in grabă și un mascul îndrăgostit te fură de la spate. Ah. Ar fi fost ceva daca aveai ochi să-l vezi! A flirtat lejer cu spatele tău. Am râs.

     Iar ai dispărut. E greu să țin pasul picioarelor tale; să nu mai zic de expresiile feței sau de gândurile păcătoase.  Ești impecabilă oricum. Parcă așa am picat de acord ca vei fi in ochii mei, nu?

     Îți aud vocea la masa de lângă. Fascinant. Ce culoare i-ai dat!

     Îmi stă un drac pe gând și nu te scapă din priviri.

     Hm. Ce lent te miști cu paharele reci în mâna! Sensual. Impecabil.

     Torni spumă în paharul înalt, extrem de concentrată; atât încât sprâncenele se arcuiesc spre linia de înjumătățire a feței; cine nu te-a urmărit ar fi zis ca te-ai încruntat într-un mod nesimțit.

     Îți ți greutatea in piciorul stâng, corpul încordat si mă privești în ochi. Buzele tale au schițat un zâmbet cât de cât inocent, un pic ascuns, cu o idee de senzualitate, iarăși impecabil.

     Le mulțumești mediocrilor. Iar i-ai definit prin zâmbet. De unde să știe săracii că judecata le turna apă în pahare?

N-ar mai fi fost mediocri dacă îți recunoșteau chipul.

     Ai dat cu meniul diagonal în cineva, zâmbind a realizare, lăsând cumva să ți se ude buza de jos. Oare ce gândeai?

     Deja simt vinul în organism; în zâmbet. Fredonezi melodia. Hm. Pretty woman. Tocmai ți-ai plimbat limba pe buze. Oare știi ce am gândit?

Brutal.

Seducător.

Fascinant.

Sensual.

Păcătos.

Impecabil.

     Ia sa te văd la asta. O vei fredona?

Mă trag mai la stânga pentru a te vedea mai bine.  Am trecut toată dimineața peste melodia asta. Nu știu de ce n-am vrut să o ascult. La dracu!

Râzi. In momentul ăsta îți verși sufletul. Hm. L-ai băgat la loc repede.

“Acel ceva în mișcarea ta.”

A tresărit în mine versul și mi s-a aprins un zâmbet pe buze. Da, s-a aprins. Am zis bine. De ce? Mi-a zâmbit sufletul.

     Nu mai ești in peisaj așa ca pot să zâmbesc liniștit.  Fără să mă trădez. Cel puțin nu către tine. Restul mediocrilor au permisiunea mea să vadă. Corporatiștii oricum nu mă văd; poate de ăia mă mai interesa pentru că suntem aceasi nație de la nouă la șase. Restul sunt doar mediocri.

Hai să-ți explic de ce.

     Cuplul din diagonala mea nici nu-și închipuie că defapt vor fi un cuplu. Femeia își ține picioarele încrucișate in direcția bărbatului; își ascunde zona intimă cu legătura picioarelor dar de fapt nu se prinde ca mâna ei dreaptă a dezvăluit zona gâtului. S-a trădat singură. Piciorul ei stâng joacă a nervozitate.  El este greu de studiat căci îi văd doar spatele. Pot sa zic totuși cu o certitudine jignitoare că umerii lui sunt paraleli cu umerii ei iar corpul sta lăsat in fața. Ceva îi ține din joc. Ea se întinde spre el iar el se trage instinctiv si vice versa. Mediocritatea asta, ce face din om!

Râzi cu glasul tare și mă distragi. Iarăși colorezi cu râsul tau. Vii spre mine zâmbind și ma induci in eroare. Ți-aș fi furat un sărut sau mai multe dar ma abțin.

Cei trei mediocrii din diagonala mea perfectă și-au făcut ieșirea. Bineînțeles îi așteaptă pluta…

…va urma.

Mediocrity.

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It was mesmerizing. I can tell you that. The way Darkness was inhaling me was mesmerizing. I counted seven stars on the sky, a few humans around and the speed of the cars racing; infinite; at least in my mind. In reality, there was just a soul beside me, humidity in the air and a few cars running sixty miles per hour. But I did not want to see the reality because my surreal dream was so absorbing.

I went back to it and I began rambling again while staring at the spark of the lamp post.

We conversed about the mediocrity of the human soul; me and the universe. I had a soul beside me listening but my mindset was elsewhere. I was imagining myself on an untidy bed, a soul losing its’ mind into my eyes, between my legs.

Devouring a soul and lifting it up to the defining line of the universe it’s the most exquisite gifts a human can receive. Keeping it on the ground, sane and steady, can cause the syndrome of mediocrity. Judging the corruption of the soul would be a great mistake if you do so gentlemen. Define happiness if you can though and you will understand what I am mumbling about.

Perhaps you’re not interested in my definition of it but I am free to state it anyway.

Devouring happiness: the liberty of the soul to collude with the walls of dispair while reflecting itself into the depth of a moment’s realisation.

The eyes, love. The eyes. Lose yourself into the mournful excitement of those eyes.

Mediocrity. Lose it. Give it up. Chase your soul to the end of the world. Do not keep your greatness intact.

Ruin yourself, stay still and feel the adrenaline of your blood. Now you’re not mediocre anymore.

But, can you do that?

Denial.

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I have to talk about it. I have to think about it. I have to decide on it. I have to and all I wish is that I hadn’t.

There is that nod again; a feeling that I haven’t felt for a long time. It’s suffocating. That would be the perfect description for the way my insides are twisting up to my lungs. It bitters me to admit that I feel caged again. I want to break free but my heart stops me.

I am sitting on the corner of the bed, inhaling polluted air, imploring my thoughts to stand down for a bit and give me piece. You’re having your usual pause from any noise that may come out of your mouth. I have been wasting saliva for so long and with it, I wasted myself.

I am in deep waters, swimming, hoping that my miserable soul won’t lose control.

I want to be free and I want to be me. That’s what I said.

You didn’t hear me. You heard another story.

The end.

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Posted: https://livelovesmilee.wordpress.com/2014/06/22/do-you-love-him/

Original post (uncensored):

          Dear stranger,
I do not. Perhaps what I am saying seems a little, or a lot, nonsensical but you asked for my sincere answer and you should know that a sincere answer is what I am giving to you. I do not love him. I find it easy to admit or agree to such a thing and the reason why is simpler than you could ever percept. Whatever this feeling that cursed me is, it goes deeper than love. Since humans haven’t found a word for that yet or we may never find, I won’t let myself indulged into its’ charm. For love I have felt and it was not like this. It was indeed powerful, every emotion was triggered by it, but now, now it’s more than that. Now, the infinity of my feelings transfixes my body and has turned my feelings into a hunting warren. A warren of desire, seduction, empathy, vivacious feelings, feelings that if you ask me; I could even live for as eternity lies at dawn.
Maybe I should let you know, hoping you would understand my questioning this ”love” you want to name, that I have become a feathery person, sometimes even feeble. I am asking you please not to judge me or try to convince me that I should reconsider my statements, all because I will not. I am not gloomy. Do not ever understand that. I am as flippant as the hays of the sun on the sunup. You should see my expression now. A sough just escaped my lips, such a sweet and perky sough! It’s tingling my heart; this image of a demi-vierge person who craves for me as I crave for him every night. This rapture or cannibalistic need of flesh, which many of us may not understand, it’s provoking me a deep sensation of amour. I do not say love dear stranger. Mark that. I am biting my lower lip at the very moment and the hotness in the air has made my skin sweat. My humid lips have a salty taste of sweat. The hot breeze, the closed window, the feeble night, they all remind me of him. They all make me crave him even more, even sweeter. How can I make it understandable to you dear stranger?
In a parallel reality, where he exists only for me, or we might say that he is here for me, he touches my lower lip, undressing it from its’ salty taste with his own big softy lips. I fear writing to you the rest of the details so if you wish you can stop reading. If not, well…read on.

     I have a need to reprint into words the dream that fed my desire two nights ago. I was intrigued dreaming the same thing twice in one night. Perhaps, or as someone today implied, it was either my fear or desire, that broke the chains to dreaming wetly. Yes, dear stranger, wetly.

     In a former letter I have described you the expression on his face, of my saturnine man of course, but I omitted the erotic details. Those are that I am thinking about though. As I said, passion and rapture feed my dreams. His hand ran into me. As you see it, into me. Filling me completely. And oh! I would be called a liar if I didn’t admit that I loved it. More importantly, I felt it. My dream felt more real than any other dream. I am embarrassed admitting such a thing, or concerned of my own burning desires. However, I should tell. It was more than one sensation. My body was flooded. I felt like an ocean which couldn’t support any more water. Close to every imagination I have had, this dream pulled me to the edge, as all I have been thinking about the last forty eight hours is that.

     On a third long parallel line, runs my heart competing to all the above or helping them get to infinity. I do not know what it actually does but I feel it running. It has become a beast, a warrior among cyclops. I shall not lie, I do feel deep feelings for him. As I said at the beginning, it is all about some other inexplicable feeling that has not been yet named because there is no greater than that. Writing the last sentence, perhaps I stupefy my own self for writing about ‘love’ as the greatest of all, but you should know, I am not. All I want you to do is understand the difference.

     If I was a bird, closed into a roost, perhaps he would be my branch. In other words, he would be the freedom I have gained for myself. In even more words, he would be the one thanks to whom I have set my wings free to live without perks or boundaries, waking up every morning, setting my self to sleep, all with the knowledge of something greater than what we already know. Perhaps, life is all about that dear stranger. Perhaps not. You should not indulge into my thoughts, just listen and understand them.
As I said, I do not seek my cage anymore.”

Tears.

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The night was terrifying and silent. The void let the other emotions burst freely on the surface. It was the first time in months that a raindrop touched the earth without any hesitation. It fell abruptly from the eye and the second one followed. I was feeling the humidity in the air days now, but the heart of stone did not believe in giving in. The mind of the sinner refused to drown and fought hard to unravel the tangled thoughts. The meteorologists and my heart had predicted a thunderstorm. After the first raindrops, the others followed easily. It was hard to sham the pain as every thunder hit the bones of the thorax. The filmstrip seemed infinite. Myself and the tawny woman, both rubbed our forehead and covered our eyes. I could feel the skin under my nails hurting but the rain had to be stopped. I had created an ocean in which my sadness could reflect itself as if it had taken a human form; fine beauty, long curly hair, sparkling eyes. I wondered what is the source of that sparkle; radiating happiness, disturbing melancholy or painful regret?

First to fall.

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I could not control the hatred. It was as if a raven was being chocken by a human, harshly; the blood drops were colouring the ground in shapes of evilness and disaster. I was disgusted by the food he once served me; I was feeling my guts burning by the drinks I used to serve him. The gastric acid was running up my lungs elevating the blood pressure and I had no control upon it. His voice made me tremble; my hands were shaking. I looked at him from behind just for a few seconds; I could not resist the urge to see him. His standing was as provocative as always; the air I breathed was irritating, a little bit poisonous I might say.

The door is closed but I can still hear his penetrating voice; it runs fluidly through the walls, making the barriers of justice collapse. I remembered his glare and his laughter. I felt my spline hurting; I panicked unwillingly as if he still has power over me. I tried to cool down my insides for the sake of the tears that would run of my eyes. I cannot.

Perhaps it seems a little off to you that I never presented such desires of hate. I heard her voice approaching and the hatred had to be buried. Hopefully, she did not come alone so the interrogation had to wait. I participated into the conversation with a forced smirk painted on my face and a few random approving words. Every sound would penetrate me like I was made of thin air. Later on, she was sleeping on my arm. I had the time to forget his voice and study the room. She became the subject of my dark thoughts and slowly pushed them away. It was an unpleasant moment; being in that bed, starring at those walls, feeling the scent of another person that wasn’t you. In a certain way I managed to concentrate on her hard breathing. Every movement of my arm would disturb her peaceful sleep; you should see her in those moments; her hands around my neck, her legs crossed and possessive. I think, that was the first time I really felt the abrupt fall. 

The hatred was forgotten, at least for a while, but the scar was still there; haunting me.

Time of death.

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         At least I know how I want to die. The peaceful sky will be having the color of midnight blue; a star here and there; not too many; enough to shine wonderfully around the moon. The waves will be hitting the shore quite hardly but in the deep; the sable line will be clear and still. The roundness of the moon will be perfect; its’ hues will have a scarlet color; bloody but still dusty grey. Across the beach no soul will be whipping beside me. The horizon will seem endless and I will be greeting it. Opposite to the endless sea,  at the exit from the beach, a wooden bar will be still lightened. No soul will ponder on the porch. The unclean dishes on top of the sink will torture my soul. I will not leave unfinished business behind. The tick-tocking of the clock may feel exasperating but not so much as I will know it will be the last I am going to hear it. There is a half empty glass of whiskey on the corner of a table. I observed that night and only, the brunette woman sitting there. She would leave the same half empty glass every night, I would take it and toss it. That night I will not. I will ran my fingers over the shapes of that glass, sink one inside, rub it on my lips and flash it inside me. It will burn but I am sure I will not mind. The void will be filled with a song from the radio. Elliott Smith will be playing his favourite song, something about us between the bars. I will take that emptied glass and walk on the shore holding it. At some point, I will fill it with the ocean’s water and  when I am ready, I will drink up my unfulfilled  dreams. Their poisonous effect will be the end of me; there, on that beach, shaded by the midnight blue sky. The clock on the wall of the bar will stop tick-tocking. Time of death: 02:30 a.m. .
I woke up in the afterlife and all I did ever since was wonder; what if I had no unfulfilled dreams? Would that water still poison me? That was my hell. I was tortured by that idea, of never finding out; what if I had done all that I wanted? No remorse, no going back.

Să mă porți in tine.

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    Am mărginit iubirea cu o bordură de fier, am transofrmat-o in praf, am adunat-o din toate colțurile sufletului meu, am curațat-o și ți-am dat un pic sa guști. Ai luat din ea un vârf de linguriță și ai atins cu vârful limbi. Ți-a fost frică să iei mai mult. Nu ți-am reproșat nimic. Te-am lăsat să faci ce vrei cu ea. Când ai simțit gustul picant, ai cerut mai mult. Nu am zis nimic, ți-am dat. Am spart-o din nou in bucațele mai mici, atât de mici incât sa-ți fie usor să o plimbi prin gură. Mă uitam la tine mirată cum iți străluceau ochii când saliva ta te dezgusta in lipsa iubirii mele. Am făcut ochii mari dar fără să comentez ți-am mai dat. In ritmul ăsta, ai reusit să mă lași fără iubire. Mă porți în tine in fiecare clipă. Îmi porți iubirea, oarecum furată, în sânge. Mă întreb uneori dacă te incomodează. Nu te doare sa trăiești cu iubirea oamenilor, ființă criminală? Ți-am cerut doar să ai grijă de a mea, să nu o plimbi prin alte paturi și să nu lași pe nimeni să calce pe ea. Sper că măcar asta ai fost in stare să faci. 
     Într-o seară friguroasă, ți-am cerut și eu la rândul meu, un strop din a ta. Am vrut doar să văd cum mi-ar sta cu ea în mine. M-am uitat in ochii tăi și am observat cum sufletul tău se scufundă în oceanul temerilor tale. Îti admiram frica; ai lăsat-o liberă să o privesc. Am zâmbit și te-am luat de mâna dreaptă ce incepuse să-și crească temperatura. Ți-am lăsat iubirea în pace și ți-am cerut să mă lași să-ți iau frica. Sufletul tău a început să plutească din nou și respirația ta s-a ușurat. Așa ai facut. Ai transformat frica ce-ți sufoca sufletul in nisip fin, ai suflat cât să-mi ajungă în toate colțurile lipsite de iubire și mi-ai cerut să fiu atentă când plec cu ea. Nu ți-am mai cerut iubirea, mi-a fost de ajuns că ai avut incredere să mă lași să-ți dărâm zidurile. Să știi că acum te plimbi dezbrăcată prin lume și numai eu te pot îmbrăca din nou. Dacă nu mai reziști, aștept să-mi ceri frica înapoi. Ți-o voi da necondiționat dar să ai grijă când o pui la loc; poate iubirea mea crește și nu mai ai unde. Ce faci? Îmi dai iubirea înapoi? N-ai cum. Nu o să mai aibă loc nici la mine, căci mi-ai luat temerile tale și în mine a intrat iubirea altcuiva; un narcisist ce îi era frică să și-o țină în el. Așa că lasă-mi temerile tale și dacă nu mai poți, transformă iubirea mea în fericire și plimbă-te cu ea dezbracată. Așa nu se ia nimeni de tine. Fericită. 

Habromania.

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She believed in nothingness as I believed in the universe. She is a peculiar creature and fascinatingly stormy. She was lying half naked in the middle of that bed, staring at me. Her smirk provoked me but I could not move. I was sitting beside her with a paralyzed leg on the ground and the other one half-hanging on the bedside. Her skin was soft and the hays of the sun were creating quite an intriguing form down on her waist. The curtain was covering the other half of the window. The view outside was as magnificent as her sparkling eyes. I turned to look myself on the mirror at the headboard; her shirt fitted me. It was as if I was wearing a part of her. Her glare was hypnotizing. She took my hand into hers and brought it close to her face. I approached to hug her cheek. She inclined her head towards my hand as if she needed to feel me. She blinked hardly and slowly; for a moment I thought she would not open her eyes. The smirk on my face transformed into a straight line. Hers too. Our thoughts aligned, we were both aware about the uniqueness of that moment.

We escaped from the mountains and ran to the sea. The sun had hidden away and tension was dominating in the air. Even the stars were afraid to come out. The universe was absent those moments; she was well dressed but her emotions were completely naked. She was overwhelmed by the sea’s agitation. She was looking at me from the driver’s seat; perhaps a bit lost or disappointed. I did not know what feeling was really dominating in that moment. I felt as if my guts had been filled with sand and I could not breath. I felt a strange need to feel the cold breeze on my skin. The sea was stormy and dark. I had to go back. She said nothing and with the same feeling dominating inside her, she took a sharp curve to get back in the abandoned city. I was still having that nod in my guts. I thought she wanted to escape; I saw her fearful and indecisive. I think she felt the world was not enough to run; words were not enough; her thoughts were disturbing and a continuous loud voice would not let her rest.

The universe had to intervene. She was forced to stop driving. It had no importance why. We were stuck there; on a dark night, by the stormy sea, no human life pondering around, just a few stars on the sky and the harsh sound of the waves hitting the shore. She exhaled madly. The sunrise was an impeccable show of colorful shades; the moon that once was touching the sable line of the sea had been driven away by the marvelous burning sun. The shattering silence had been replaced by minor worries and laughters. In that moment I saw the universe in her eyes. She told me that mine were filled with nothingness; I had hidden my thoughts. I suppose that the love I felt took a little bit of alone time to grow and then it would show up again.

…to be continued.

Chimera.

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   I would tell you that I never wanted to associate this song with you; perhaps I wanted at least that to be mine, fully, unconditionally. I would tell you that I am filled with guilt and disappointment; perhaps that is what I should feel. I would tell you that I am disgusted of your eyes, your voice and your way of treating things. I would tell you all these lies, I would keep you away from me. I would laugh on the idea that it does not worry me; I would laugh on your face and tell you that I do not care. Sometimes it seems so easy to lie but these mentioned above, it’s impossible to say. Harper Lee says that you never understand a person until you climb into his skin and walk around in it. I do not contradict to this theory but walking on her skin; I cannot do. I tried and I failed when I realized that I cannot feed you with the lies I mentioned at the beginning.
     It was a shattering morning until I heard her peaceful voice. The night before, I saw her everywhere. She was entering that pub’s door at every turn of my eye. She had her hair down and then up, she wore black and at some point she wore red. She wore all colours and had all kind of expressions. She walked in every time a woman walked in. At four o’clock in the morning the alcohol’s effect was gone. That door opened again but she wasn’t the one stepping in. I saw a brunette woman, wearing a bright red lipstick and a slim fit pair of trousers. It was then when I realized that she’d never come. I smiled hypocritically and opened my eyes. It was just a nightmare. I was staring at her sleeping next to me and after a few minutes she opened slightly her eyes smiling too. She was biting her lower lip while I was touching her below her waist. How could I lie? She has become a bitter-sweet addiction; a necessary evil.

Ineffable.

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      It was an admirable view; her sparkling eyes subduing to the night’s wilderness. I wish I could find the exact words to describe their untamed desire or the color of the fire that was burning inside of her. Perhaps I also wish I could find the courage to speak but I was just flooding silently with all sorts of emotions. I felt fear and happiness. I wanted her to turn around that road and walk with me. Later that night, after giving it some thought, I imagined doing as I wished.

     She wrapped her hands around my neck, forcing her body to rise on my back. The sky was clear but only a few stars were above us. I do not recall someone or something bearing witness to her confession. It was as if no human life was breathing around us; I would only concentrate on her perfume. The minute we arrived at the apartment she pushed me against the door. I could tell by the way her lips trembled that she expected more. I ran my finger over her lower lip while our eyes were having a long sacred interaction. She breathed deeply as if she was suffocating. I took her hand and walked in. She sat on the bed supporting her back on her palms while her legs were closed, perhaps intimidated. I was staring at her in need and in a few seconds her glare was clear of that fear. I took a step towards her, dragging her jacket off her shoulders. She was running her fingers seductively around my waist and I felt as if my bones were melting into her hands. She was biting persistently her dried lip, watching me swallow my own saliva. She enjoyed the torture as much as I did. I concentrated on the first button of her shirt so hardly that my hand ran there without the command of my mind. She tasted amazingly good. It was close to midnight and I had finally found the right words to speak up but she had fallen asleep. I whispered in her ear everything I had to say and I think she listened; there was a smile on her face even in her sleep.

Scarlet.

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      There was a time when the surface of the ocean was calm and irresistibly warm. I no longer cry for those times or try to establish them back into my life. Her untamed laughter can be easily compared to a huge rock striking the surface of the ocean. It creates an explosion inside me as if the dramatic and insane moments are not enough; I am asking for more. Sometimes I find myself worrying about the end of this hide and seek game. What if this insanity is all I need? What if the future becomes predictable?
     I put you through these ramblings of mine without telling you who am I talking about or how this infatuation began. I don’t know if the beginning matters to you but it definitely matters to me. I shall began first with the exquisite part of this journey which is definitely Her.
     She’s a woman that holds the privilege of being pure, as her name indicates so. Her natural brown hair hangs hardly in a ponytail or just caught with a clamp. She hardly lets it reveal her feminism. I looked up some old photographs of hers where she looked a lot like a carefree child, tanned and glittery. The sun adores her. She’s a woman that fights the winter days and loves the dawns at the sea. Her pale skin is always radiant and her eyes…well, those eyes have a lot to say. Perhaps that is where I can stop the description. The color of her eyes is something between autumn and spring; I think that the exact shade is called moss. She’s of a strange innocence when she smiles but that’s not easy to see as it is well hidden behind her temper. Her pace is always quick as if the road is long and she must hurry to reach the destination.
I still remember the magnificent view of her on that steel chair, sipping her latte, wearing her scarlet robe. That was the day I fell for her and it seems that I am still falling ever since.

Muse.

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Did you ever get the chance to talk to yourself while floating on the surface of a deep sea? Did you ever get the chance to walk through a forest without fearing if you lose your way?
I am still wondering if you have ever given the chance to yourself to feel the wonderfulness of a fearful moment. It was a little late to have that discussion, perhaps it was a little late for any matter or just way too soon. In history, it was all about the perfect moment, the right opportunity at the best of times. Unfortunately, nobody got the timing right. I suppose that Socrates would have been a lot more useful nowadays and Frida would have had a better chance in life if her timing was right. But, what if that was the best they could do? What if their timing was as perfect then as it would have been right now? What if she let herself walk on bare feet through that fire? If, if…I could think of a lifetime marked by this hypothetical clause but that wouldn’t be enough; “If” is not enough.
The road was slippery and cold. My feet were trembling as the nod in my stomach was pulling harder and harder my insides. I was trying to control myself to every bite of her lip. The sadness in her eyes was such a seductive burdain. She kept her glare mostly public, letting me study her while swallowing her own saliva hardly. Her collar bones had an intriguing form of a flying bird, somehow being in accordance with her unclear thoughts. She had an unusual perfume that I can hardly describe. Perhaps that would be one of the last things I could possibly describe. The view was still foggy but her smile resembled a lot to summer. I could feel her sorrows inside me, burning and forcing me to talk. The last few meters were the worse. We had found our way out of the forest and the mythical moments we had were fading away into the darkness. It is her eyes the last image I remember; filled with doubts.

Nyctophilia.

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  My eyelids were getting heavier but I couldn’t persuade my mind to fall asleep. January has always been the coldest of all months. Her chicks were almost frozen. Their bloodish pink colour was obvious from far away while her sparkling eyes couldn’t get any brighter. I always believed that her name was perfectly chosen for her personality; the Greek goddess Hecate would be proud.
She was lying by my side. It was a bit after midnight. Her hand was moving slowly in my hair, playing with it until I closed my eyes. I was feeling her intense look. She put her knee between my legs as if she was a bit provocative but at the same time stretching her tired body. I felt her hand moving lower, closer to the main neck vain but I wouldn’t open my eyes. I put my right hand under her cheek while my left one wrapped her to me. She continued her soft and gentle movements until I fell into deep sleep. Even in my dreams, I could see the purity in her eyes. It was magnificent. Never have I ever seen before such an intense glare.
It was a little before dawn when I opened my sleepy eyes and kissed her forehead. She sighed hard as if she carried a great burdain. I took her face into my hands and held her tight to my bosom. We stood there for a few minutes while the first sun hays were trying hard to push away the dark night. The moon persisted a bit longer in the sky and the room was still dim. I brought her face up to the level of mine and leisurely touched her lower lip with my thumb. A little while before the disappearance of the moon we engaged into deep sleep together. The next moment she opened her eyes, the room was smelling of fresh made coffee and a little bit of snow. She half-smiled and hugged the mug I served her with both hands.