Right after the final act, curtains of silence fell upon the both of us. Only the orchestra of breaths going decrescendo audible, with the mixed choir of late traffic in the background. It’s probably a little after midnight, but I didn’t bother to check my phone. He didn’t bother to put his clothes back on, resting there on the dusty, tattered couch. It isn’t the most glamorous stage, yet he shines there, bathed into red yellow green of the traffic light spying through the window. I, admiring from the audience position on the floor, interrupted our quiet with the lighter’s small noise to throw a glance at his dreamy face and to light up my killer.
I don’t love him.
He was the scent of concrete with flowery drops of expensive perfume, I freaking craved wildness with the smell of trees and the feel of a night breeze.
We were both flamed up by emptiness.
I was thinking about someone else. He probably wasn’t thinking at all.
He doesn’t love me.
He took care of the fire lit up by another person.
It’s just that the idea of an atelier full of canvases projecting his image gets him off.
I was amused. Tossing thoughts around, playing with short chuckles while balancing the cigarette between my lips. It was when my hand reached for a sketchbook and a pen when he spoke, muttering:
“You’re such a textbook example of a lost little artist” Amused.
Have I made him immortal yet?
My head soon fell back on the couch and it got my mind all messed up. His hand sank into my hair. I sank into dreams dreams d r e a m s.