(no subject)
She opens the car door in broad day, light hits her from the interior of the jet-black compact. In a smile, always with a smile, she motions to me, lost in a daze of days and suicidal tendencies, she sings. In a tone of forever, she stops and starts the car and right then it hits me how faces often lie, like women have sex for money; sort of a cold deception of honesty and warmth. But it was neither cold nor hot that early September night, the sun smoothing over the sharp cuts of stone in the sky. And somewhere between then and now I think to myself that there's nothing sexier than a girl who drives fast, or at least faster than some. Smoke clings to her lips on the exhale, as though it to enjoys the taste of blood-red cherries, and then slips through the sunroof. But now I'm surrounded by serenity and only creating those lips in my mind. Would it lie and blur my vision? If so, these lies are opium for my soul, and how I wish to kiss such lips of pale sapphire and rose.