Sunday, April 3


If you were my lover this is what I would tell you. Imagine you are standing here in front of me. I’m so close to you that you can smell me, my breath, my perfume, my sweat which still reminds you of the smell of a young boy. You think you know me but you haven’t touched me yet. My face has changed and I look so much older than you thought I would. My hair has become dry and thin. You think that touching me will change things, but it never does. I will still be that person that you cannot reach, and it is probably the only reason that you still desire me. You tell me something I don’t want to hear, that your life is like performance art. That everything we do in life is like a dance, someone approaching, the other one pulling away. Now there is no escape. I am alive, I have no excuses anymore. My beauty has faded, but you haven’t told me this. You stretch out your hand so I can hold you. And this is what I always do, this simple act which gives me joy: I hold your hand.