There is no truth. Take a glass, for example. Lola picks it up sometimes, half full, to drink its water. Then she picks it up sometimes, half empty, to throw it at me. It misses because girls can’t throw (that’s why to insult a guy you say he throws like a girl) and it breaks like little promises.
Little promises. Let’s take a big one, actually. Like when Lola, naked and tightly held in my arms in our uncomfortable bed, says she loves me. I love you, and wanna spend the rest of my life with you, she says, constantly. And I always believe her, because I’m a sucker for compliments and because I’m naive and because I love her also.
So I tell her I love you.
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When the Kingdom of Hearts is closed,
You feel depressed, decomposed.
Hope is your only ally,
But then time goes by,
And reality becomes your worst enemy,
Because you know together you can’t be!
And your heart is hurt deeply,
Because you know how amazing she can be!
Together you can’t be,
How happy can you be?
No matter how much you cry,
She always says bye,
And that’s the reason why,
Hope is a lie.
It hurts to think about her,
But it’s even more painful not to.
She’s a glimmer of light that fills your heart;
You’re a lonely bird in search of a herd!
You can’t laugh, you can’t smile,
All you can do is cry,
Because you look to your side,
And your tears cannot hide!
You see she’s not there,
That’s some pain you can’t bear.
There’s a hole by your side,
There’s a hole in your heart.
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I put my hand over her flat stomach. It’s warm and moist and makes a gurgly noise. Is it hungry? I start caressing her skin with the tip of a finger, mapping the shape of an expanding circle until there is no more space and then it recedes. I repeat the gesture absent-mindedly, mechanically. The rest of her body mirrors her stomach: immobile and fragile, yet underneath it’s a steaming, boiling kettle. Next to the bed where we lay is the open window, whose gap is so slim that only an ambitious and determined mouse could force its way through — or the current breeze, rare on this humid day but welcomed, that carries along with it, faintly, the distorted tune of Radiohead’s No Surprises. I take a deep breath and devour the ever growing colony of freckles resting on her subtle nose, that small, untraceable and untouchable smelling equipment that lies with an unworried mind between her eyes and her mouth. And even though her eyes are closed, I know that she’s not sleeping, just like I know, wasting my gaze out the window, that the moon hidden by the clouds is still shining bright somewhere in the darkness.
”How did we get to this?”
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