Lost but emancipated

Once,
I was
close
to got married
with a
German girl.

We met each
other, long time
ago, desire,
obstacles and stifled
stares of
our own impossible
attraction, dominated us.

Ruled by
the words of our games,
the language of
the undone, plausible
drowned thirst;
two common but
independent
fictions were built.

To each other
we made
a silly oath:
reserve the right
to fall in love
sometime.

Then,
I grabbed
my bottle
for months,
got it empty
and I left that place.
I returned to
my hole.
No words
were said.
Made to survive
maybe four more
miserable springs.
Couple of letters
sent,
the remembrances
still could hurt.

Then,
she called me;

-I am visiting you-

I almost had
forgotten who she was,
who was I,
the slinky smell of a
upcoming
warm meal.

Someone up there
close to the main office
decided
my bleed deserved,
a sweet garnish.

She knocked my door
a week later,
and everything started
to run frenzy
after three days.

Wine
laughter
nights.
Time
slaughter
insights.
Tenderness
caress
orgasms.

The oath
fulfilled
of two young
stares.

She said
after a week of sun:

-Let's go back to Dresden. It is my old grandpa's b-day. Could drink as much Riesling as you wish.-

I guessed, that was very much wine in that time, so in a half day, we were heading the highway, lifting up our thumbs in our way to eastern Germany. We slept on the road, drove with tough truck drivers, ate shit, shit wood, sweated together and spent a ridiculous fortune in awful petrol stations.
I did not understand France back in those times, so we moved quite slow. In two days we reached Stuttgart. The train station was an actual branding iron.

She said
victim of Dehydratation:

-You are
the perfect guy-

Something was permissively wrong in that point. Although I was young, I knew it. That meant that delusions had tear the fiction. That meant I was trapped again. No hole. No obscurity. No maternal womb nor way out. The anthropophagus magnicide was back, irrupting in my non paved paths of mental dysentery. The wardrobe reign of skeletons court, demand the captious embodiment of a thick tongue who would allow her immaterial and non-existent psyche the pleasure of knowing what meant the feel of a wet tongue against another insipid momentary fleshed tongue. Our own impossible. The fiction of a Grimm brother. Someone, loyal and hardworking, from the cellars found the mistake and wanted to demarcate the length, scope of my right to swim in pale skin, pink abundance, welcoming lips; that right to fulfill an oath that allowed me to drown in polar blue double-edged eyes. Who talked with silence and conquered the half of my will without casualties. The Grieschicher Wein. The charm and random revenge of a razed city by the planes, pondered adrift on the Elbe. Another notch in the Fürstenzug.

Then, I got
a bit scared and
anticipated the
entity of
the next week.

You are
nice.

You are
brilliant.

You are
perfect.


You are


over.