She paints my life with her one-colour rainbows, she gets me closer to desire, she’s a center to my whirling, and I don’t know the reason why.
Next thing I notice, when I wake up, she’s creating life with her words that come straight down to my soul. She’s painting pictures on my body with her lips, and her fingers are the answer to my plea. She drives me crazy for an hour, keeps me chilled out for a while.
Sings about lovers and the nonsense of their cries, and how my soul recognizes the broken beatings of her twisted heart, because we are the same old spirits trapped again in time.
And for some odd, strange reason that I can’t recall, corrupts a Virgin Mary with her prayers, and a question about the wildness of such life. Then crawles back to me, sealing wounds I can’t quite see, but I’m aware I feel. And the world shackles when I get her to smile, I touch her skin and clean the dust that covers her sad two eyes.
-You are my angel, my muse, my inspiration, c’est pour toi qui j’ai perdu la raison...
The words slip down from my mouth without permission. Her eyes roll back in a mean gesture. She steppes away from the room, and comes back after ten minutes that felt like a torture in Hell, with a hot cup of cofee in her hands. Grabs the bottle of whiskey lying at the bed’s end, and empties it’s content with a single wrist movement over the top of my head, like some sacred ritual from a desert far away...
Is there a new day?
