I wanted someone to enter my life like a bird that comes into a kitchen, and starts breaking things and crashes with doors and windows, leaving chaos and destruction. This is why I accepted her kisses as someone who has been given a leaflet at the subway. I knew, don’t ask me why or how, that we were gonna share even our toothpaste. We got to know each other by caressing each other’s scars ,avoiding getting too close to know too much. We wanted happiness to be like a virus that reaches every place in a sick body.
I turned my home into a water bed and her breasts into dark sand castles .She gave me her metaphors, her bottles of gins and her North Africa stamp collection. At night we would talk in dreams, back to back and we would always, always, agree. The sheets were so much like our skin that we stopped going to work. Love became a strong big man with us, terribly handy, a proper liar, with big eyes and red lips. She made me feel brand new. I watch her get fucked up, lose touch, we listened to Nick Drake in her tape recorder and she told me she was a writter. I read her boook in two and a half hours and cried all the way through as watching Bambi.
She told me that when I think she has loved me all she could, she was gonna love me a little bit more. My ego and her cynicism got on really well and we would say “what would you do in case I die” or “what if I had AIDS ?” or “don’t you like the Smiths” or “let’s shag now”. We left our fingerprints all around my room, breakfast was automatically made, and if it would come to bed in a trolley, no hands, we did compete to see who would have the best orgasms, the nicer visions, the biggest hangovers. And if she came pregnant we decided it would be God hand’s fault. The world was our oyster. Life was life.
But then she had to go back to London, to see her boyfriend and her family and her best friends and her pet called “Gus”. And without her I’ve been a mess. I’ve painted my nails black and got my hair cut. I open my pictures collection and our past can be limitless and I know the process is to slice each section of my story thinner and thinner until I’m left only with her, I’ve felt like shite all the time no matter who I kiss or how charming I try to be with my new birds. This is the point, isn’t it ? New birds that will project me along a wire from the underground into the air, into the world.
Gurg song, de Migala, para animarse antes de salir….