I light a cigarette, the light falls down, I knit brows and light it again. I trace with eyes the smoke slowly coming out of my lips and wrapping around my face. My hand is in a typical fair hideous pose. The eyes are half-empty, behind them there is no soul hidding, behind them is The Emptiness. My breathing is constant, calm, almost unnoticeable. Looking at me sidelong I look strangely erotic and scary. The cigarette takes turns with absolute vodka. Maybe this is why behind the eyes there is nothing, or at least I want you to think this way. I wasn't always like that, I didn't light one cigarette from the other and after a little vodka I was under the table. Now I turn the third glass empty and tell the bartender to poor me the next. He knows me, he knows when how much I drink, he brings me matches. He knows, once I wasn't like that, knows the smile on my lips, and my face not like an anemic, he knows that once I was full of life.
But this was long ago, too long, before I met you. Then you drained me to the last drop... and wanted more. In the end there was only a dryed shell with a cigarette in the hand. The memory of can't be erased, I see it every morning, it looks back at me with regret and dullness from the mirror.
You said that I look thrilling with a cigarette in my hand in the club. But this was long ago.
I still go out with friends, I still go to dates. But the fire in me, the same that drew you to me, faded. Now everything is inertness. I don't feel anything while he is hugging me, I don't shiver when he touches me. I want to wake up tomorrow and be able to feel – pain, fear, sadness. Not apathy.
Did we ever have a relationship?
But that was long ago.
I light a cigarette, my hands are shaking. The bartender gave me the last glass and called for a taxi. He often accompanies me to home... and stays for the night.
A slight wave of feelings. Like electricity. I wanted to scream out your name like so many times before. But instead I seeked for the warmth of the other body and I hid from my demons.
And here I am, smoking with a cigarette-holder and finally learned to walk on high-heels. But I didn't say yes to him. Neither to someone else. I couldn't. How can a puppet without a heart say „yes"? And for that now I smoke.
But this was long ago. Now I rot in the earth. I have no children, my grave is desolate, no one lights up a candle for me. There is no one to bring me a rose. And my spirit wanders lonely, incomplete and waiting for you.
But this was long ago. I open my eyes and take in my first breath. It's cold. Can the nightmare be starting all over again?
