Karyme
What is it about love that makes people lose themselves, that makes them forget everything and everyone around them?
Love is my drug of choice. I have been in love more times than I can count, but never has any of these affairs, regardless of how intense, made me forget about the people that are really important in my life. There are very few people that I feel that other kind of love for, deep and everlasting, which takes a long time to be born but dies just as difficult.
So far, that kind of love was only directed toward my mother, my brother Said and the weird girl I met five years ago when I moved to Switzerland.
Roxana Ceban, where the fuck are you and why don't you pick up your phone in three months?
I keep staring at her last text.
I am going to meet Marco, actually, try to be with him. You know the circumstances so I might not be able to contact you. Take care. I love you lots, bitch.
Yeah, I love you too and can't help thinking that three months is too long without a single call.
Marco is certainly taking care of her; he looked very much in love, but somehow, something doesn't let me let it go. Maybe it's just the fact that I am low-key frustrated and feel betrayed. I felt like we were ride or die, not something you discard once a guy you fancy comes along.
Other three months slide by when I actively try not to think about it. There are nights I spend in our apartment when I can't help remembering the good and bad times and missing hearing her or talking to her.
The moment you meet someone that is going to become important in your life, you just feel it. It's like a click or a tingle. You just know. The first time when I saw Roxi, she was drenched by the Swiss autumn rain and shivering, apologizing for having been twenty minutes late for the appointment she had to see the room I had for rent. Twenty minutes is a lot by Swiss standards. Most wouldn't have waited, but I am not Swiss and there was a desperate and extremely cute, blond girl entering my home at ten in the evening.
It would be a lie to say that I didn't think about hooking up with her the first few weeks. I knew she wasn't gay. She mentioned an ex-boyfriend that had been quite an ass, but that didn't stop me from thinking that many girls are bi-flexible many times.
One evening, shortly after having moved in, I walked on her crying in the kitchen and fighting with her father on the phone. That sounded familiar. I opened a bottle of wine and we drank it while she told me what was happening in her life, everything there was: about the dead mother, the alcoholic father, and the debt to the mob. Something changed in me in that moment. It felt special. She felt special and I understood that it was a different kind of affection I feel for her.
"Baby, what are you thinking of?" asks Michelle, the cute redheaded American I have picked up two weeks ago in a club. She is having her study year abroad in Switzerland and I am happy to provide the entertainment. "Are you thinking about another girl?"
"Yeah," I answer truthfully. I made it an objective to never lie, mostly not in my personal life.
Of course, she frowns feeling offended.
"Hey, baby," I whisper leaning over to kiss her. "It's not what you think."
"You literally told me you are thinking about another girl while still being in bed with me. Were you thinking about her also while you were touching me? I have been warned about you. Stupid me," she says annoyed, trying to stand up.
"She is my friend. Only that, no benefits. And I think something bad might have happened to her."
Her expression softens and she smiles and kisses me back.
YOU ARE READING
Death And Love Poems (2) Mafia Romance
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