You are beautiful. I never told you that because every time I tell you to moist your lips you go back to act like a stranger in a train station. I’m not brave tonight to hear you talk about the weather again. Your sadistic nature is ending my animal impulses a nanometre to your moon lighted lips. The same moonlight drips down your long, straight hair and stops in my palms. The sunlight travelled a long way, cut a few corners, hugged your hair and now is resting in my palms. I stay quiet for a moment as I empty the light from my palms onto your naked breasts. You should see it, I am sure your palms will instinctively join this dance: us both harvesting light to appreciate them and applaud after we kiss. I imagine I’m touching your legs way up at the end of them with my every word. I can actually see all my words sucked up… as stupid or as interesting they are, none of them seems to make any change in your behaviour. Wine is falling. Is falling down my throat like a waterfall and with it is my love story. We left a long time ago but I am still here: the gipsy wind, the factory lights, the hill, dogs barking and the seven stairs where the light disappears.
The actors are gone and the stage will probably be empty tomorrow night.
The light stayed behind alluring actors to practice the Kiss.