They compare you to a caricature.
To a harlot who wears the darkness
like a lace that’s hidden under a dress.
They can’t stand you or understand you.
The ones to which your appearance is too much.
Seductive and proud.
True to yourself.
Always in the center of attention.
Never giving it to anyone.
Irresistible and talkative.
Even when you leave the room.
But they can’t look at you like art,
those who don’t see the ugly side of you.
Art doesn’t have to be perfect.
And somehow, you are art to everyone.
You catch everyone with your eyelashes,
everyone who imagines you naked, you know each look.
From time to time, you act like a romantic dreamer,
just to seduce those who are such.
And you always have the answer to everything.
Made of tulips and sugar,
you smell of whiskey, lipstick, and cigarettes.
You dominate the podium and provoke
those who are going to touch your lace later.
In a silk dress,
you are on fire, from head to toe.
The breaths that remain behind you
never find their way back to your look.
And those who you allow to touch you,
remain thirsty at the very thought of your crotch.
Pleasant and interesting chats,
at three in the morning, you play with your hair,
you move it to the opposite side
as if you were born to conquer,
even the air you breathe.
A gentle, energetic smile
can easily turn into erotica if you want.
The soul made of blues and light jazz,
Billie Holiday plays in you,
in all the right places, but to the wrong people.
A provocative and intelligent mind,
versatile and stimulating, you collect looks
as if it’s your favorite hobby.
You wouldn’t admit to anyone even if it’s true.
You know what an aphrodisiac you are.
And like a magnet, you attract curiosity,
then you reject it when it becomes too personal.
You open the wounds of humanity,
and you don’t even wonder how many of them are bleeding because of you.
Because you were always protected and guarded,
you didn’t know what it’s like to be invisible.
What it’s like to stumble over and over again
with blurred vision stuck in the corner of the eye
of one unhappy man.
Moments torn at the seams,
strangers around you, on the verge of thirst.
I still don’t know why you chose me.
There was a rush, the air was melting.
Some unspoken hastiness.
But my thirsty eyes have violated your desire.
Poisoned by need, you exposed your thoughts with touchings.
You used your senses,
patient and overwhelmed with dignity,
you penetrated my longing to own you.
The intensity was shooting,
and your hand sliding under the table,
slowly revealed the inevitable attraction.
We were both in a trance but from different kinds.
You owned me, and you enjoyed proving me so,
and I let you use me,
to forget all my moral injuries
which I inflicted them on myself,
as I realized later.
You lifted my head,
and looked at me like no one ever did.
That look was the laser beam
aimed at losing my mind.
Honesty killed the electricity that passed
through my veins at the very sound of your voice in the crowd.
The rest is misunderstood.
The most important thing is that I understand.
In the end, I was just another stranger
who remembered the smell of impassibility
underneath a silk dress.
Just another man, left thirsty.