a glass of whiskey in his hands, charmingly paired with his intellect,
while he points to the bar, declaring "hey man, feel free to bring more shots".
his arm up, the wrinkled red shirt giving way to reddish lines, just before he puts the fabric back to where it was resting.
you see, he hide his scars in a calculated manner-
history imprinted on his skin,
eternalized on its painful way,
his head down at time, as if he felt his neck weighing too much,
bowing to my touch.
but between one shot and another
I want to pour myself into his hands like I could myself be that destilled vodka,
running liquidly down his mouth, suddenly invaded by an urge to get closer.
I want to tell him: dear, I have also
stared at pointed, silver surfaces and wondered if a blade could be my emergency exit,
“Follow this way in case of fire”,
the things is, when your mind sets you on fire, no one teaches you how to or where to flee.
I want to tell you that sometimes I feel that the razors only failed as my potencial escapes
because I have always been too afraid
to make that one first incision.
but my foggy mind still knows damn well that if I torn myself into his arms,
he will either hold me with understanding
or run to get the fire extinguisher.
the red fabric of his wrinkled blouse.
the distilled vodka still burns my mouth,
burning like a tear,
yet another outcome of my foolish and hasty vulnerability.
we broke up the following week.
the second option remains the usual;
he hurried down the stairs.