The Picture

I wake up Friday morning and look at your picture, unlike any other I’ve ever seen, it has a touch of heroic character and perhaps like the sunset at Copacabana and midnight in Paris, both distinguishable for their beauty.

Sitting at the grocery I ask for coffee and toasted bread, closing my eyes whilst the smoke gets in them, and the consumers walk by smacking their shoes, I remain wondering what’s necessary for such beauty to exist, so implacable and tyrannic.

Still with eyes closed, I imagine what is like to kiss you and feel your perfume, touch your thighs, and look you in the eye while I tell you how much I would’ve been a better man, and how much happier I would’ve become, with only that kiss, never looking back for what could’ve been, as I know it couldn’t, for you are one of a kind, and I am, me.

In the impact we make, the shattered feelings that crawl underneath the pavement, and those of us who do not make such an impression will always feel lost and longing for connection, I am alone and wish so and there’s nothing you or anyone can change about that.

And in a different way I desire the moment, being there without touching, being there whilst you move and speak and stare at the cold blank horizon, and love you even if you’re not mine, for I love all the women that have existed through my chaos of a life.

I took a glimpse at you and your serious personality and closed eyebrows, your fine chin, and thin lips as all was a lie, for you existed before only in my wildest dreams; having grown in my heart like strawberry seeds and flew away with another like birds building their nest.

Suddenly I don’t think anymore, for that beautiful, sparkly, voluptuous view exited my mind as one hurricane in a sea of proliferous life, that is, and is the manner with which I cope with the world, and all the one love, I have for you.