The wine bottle he opened makes me dizzy, or are it his lips. He laughs loud, I shiver.
We're too different. I'm too similar to the man who was involved in my genetic. I heard he likes blue, like me. My father likes blue like the sea over a coral riff.
Red wine and cookie skin. I was always afraid to get too close, to get involved, to open up. Affection is just affection. Desire is just desire. Fire is just fire, and ice is just ice. Slaty kisses become sweet.
Breaths, quickened heartbeats flying. His eyes dark like chocolate seeds. Each of us has a talent. We are both lost.
"Give me the wine," I garb the bottle. "Find a glass," I whisper.
I'm still a lady when it comes to it. He smiles inhaling on my skin, his quickened breath tickles. Hair hopelessly torn. My lipgloss on his face.
One of his natives had let me in into the States when I landed there for the first time. I'm still confused, it seemed unreal to touch the childhood dream, while it didn't give me wings.
His warmth is missing when he crosses the kitchen and opens all cupboards to find a wine glass, and a second one. He smiles wide the whole time, ignores his rosy cheeks and messy hair. I wish I could be like this again. The one who believes that love is.... like skin is skin and wine is wine - innocent.
What does it mean - Innocent? The wine is deeply purple when it stains the glass. Innocent? Not guilty of what:
Of constant silence, and bullies that made me a victim at school, and constantly opened doors at home. Guilty of too less-spoken words and too less understanding. Guilty of living in a dream world where everything is perfect but love is a sin. Guilty off too less and too much love.
I empty the glass at once, he takes a sip right form the green bottle of the 94 Bordeaux, his lips change taste. The kitchen spins and his skin is warmer but still so soft. He's 19, just 19, 19 -adult enough to understand that we can't not experience desire. There is so much untouched skin and I want it all. His lips start to hurt because they are perfect, but way too less to still the flame.
These days when everything was simple. I wished to have different parents, not a boy like him and the world at my feet.
I suffered great loneliness and then I found out that my father is as lonely as me, and so was my mum, I guess. They taught me what they knew. They couldn't give more, even if they wished to cover the night sky with suns so I can always go back in the safe light. The moment when writing feels like cutting through your own inner wounds is the reason to stop and twice the reason to write, three times the reason to scream.
We've all been there, a dark room, my favorite sad song on replay and no reason to move an inch form these place.
He is fire, He is rain. There are sweet drops in his hair, on his chin. I lick them off his face. Salty kisses become wet.
My hands reach wherever they can reach, his hands are everywhere.
And than the door cracks.
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